House of Cards
by Kourion
Summary: Jane takes the doll almost reverently - his fingers tapping along the wood toggle buttons of Rupert Bear's coat. Carefully. Entranced. "I saw him, and I thought of you. Must be the outdated, through spiffy outfit. Circa 1890, am I right?"/ Jisbon-centric/ COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Title - House of Cards - Part 1  
><strong>

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary:** Acidosis. His body is starving. His spine is starting to protrude through his clothing. Without the IV's, Jane would simply let himself die. /Mental illness. Jisbon-centric.

**A/N: Dark times ahead.**

This story is based on a theory of Jane having dissociative identity disorder (_haven't heard that theory? It's gaining momentum on the internet, as horrific as the idea would be for the character_). Do I believe this is the case, and the way the show will wrap up? _No._ (I mean, the outrage amongst Jane fangirls would be too intense XD).

But I find it fascinating. I find it the most disturbing of any theory I've heard yet on the _"who is Red John?"_ front. Absolutely heartbreaking, if true.

And so I wanted to explore the very idea. Of course...this story is a one shot (well, this is part 1 of two parts, technically), but it IN NO WAY fits in with any of the other stories I have created for Jane and Lisbon. I _have_ opted to keep certain characters from those fics, and incorporate them in this one. Namely Gabbie, who has grown on me ;) But the actual story itself is purely a stand alone.

**Very quickly:** the second part of this will be of approximate equal length and (hopefully) will be up within a week. There is a bit of a twist in this story (please send me a pm if you think you know what it is!) and even if my natural draw is towards angst, to leave Jane where he is...in _this_ story? Well, I don't have it in me. So please do not get...too depressed yet.

All will be revealed soon :)

* * *

><p><em>"A final comfort that is small, but not cold: The heart is the only broken instrument that works." ~T.E. Kalem<em>

* * *

><p>My mother always told me that autumn is the most introspective of the seasons.<p>

Winter is the no man's land. The hibernation of souls outside of life. Souls not yet granted passage to the realm of the living. Souls blanketed under the snow and ice. And then Spring hops along, and equates with birth. _Obviously._ Buds open, lambs take staggering steps across still brown grass. But there's hope.

_There's so much fucking hope..._

Summer is the intensity of life, entire. Summer is when I fell in love, and loved with all my heart. And summer is when I thought love would be_ enough to save someone_. When love would be enough to sustain me even if the winter came too soon.

But winter came before autumn this year.

The seasons got it wrong. The stars and the planets and the universe got it wrong.

_God got it wrong._

Because Jane is still breathing. His heart is still beating.

_And no logic in the world can make sense of it._

* * *

><p>If winter is death, then autumn is the time when we contemplate the fact that we are nearing the end. That death is inevitable.<p>

Ideally, we all contemplate the ephemeral nature of life and reach out for connection. Ideally we try to contemplate the beauty of connection, and if we are lucky, some of us may even fall in love.

Fall in love or come to love and have it reciprocated long before we come to pass. Pass to the cold of the ground and the white-grayness of skies that are almost _pretty_ in a harsh testament to life's frailty.

At death, we hope - all will be revealed.

_"The pain will pass away, but we won't. It looks like we are doing the fading, but it is only our bodies that fade, Teresa."_

That's what my mother used to tell me. When I was little. Or even when I was older. A pre-teen, a 7th grader but still afraid of death so fully that my throat would feel swollen with an allergic sort of horror. A near hysteria whenever I thought **too much** about the seepage of time from neither here nor there, but from my cells and from my readily beating heart.

A heart, a brain, a skeletal system given to daily notching. _Notch, notch, notch._ _I was becoming smaller and smaller with every passing day. With every day closer to that fulfilled promise. The bodily promise of decay._

And that fear, intense as it was? It would wake me from my sleep with a dying scream in my throat. I'd hear my mother's bird-light flight down the hall to my bedroom...within seconds, usually. On would click the bedside lamp.

On would come the illuminating force of my mother.

Not in the light itself. Not in the physical attributes of a room suddenly glowing with an artificial day.

_But in her touch._

I could have closed my eyes forever, and have been soothed by my mother's touch. Her soft hands that always smelled like German chamomile and cloves. Healing plants. And if we were pagans, I would have thought these the scents of a Goddess, coming to extended my life in small rubs across my back. Coming to soothe me even if all she could do - _my mere mortal mother_ - was love me in her gentle way.

In her quiet acceptance of my terror.

* * *

><p><em>It lasted for years.<em> My fear of death.

It crested after my mother's death, and reached a state of paranoid intensity shortly before my 13th birthday.

_I still remember that day. My sore belly. Rotund and prickling._

_Little brothers banging on the door to use the bathroom._

_Blood in my underpants._

And I knew so strongly in that moment that the blood was a testament to the fact... that I was dying.

I was dying, but the exchange was that I could offer life. If I so _choose to do so_, when older, **when ready.** The bleeding was an assurance of a living death. It was a reminder that I was closer to the inevitable final stage.

I had already lost my baby teeth. I had already notched my body further in a somewhat poor excuse for a growth spurt, just the year before. And now I had achieved the next stage in the limited number of stages before the complete and final shut down of ME. Of Teresa Lisbon, creature of clay and ash and dust.

But maybe - _maybe_ - I could save that promise of life by holding off on creation.

_Certainly for as long as possible._ Certainly only when it was needed. When it was called of me to offer it to one who needed it more.

* * *

><p>When I turned 13, the panic attacks reached critical mass.<p>

I'd rest in my room while my father drunk himself into a stupor and swore at television game show contestants.

_And got beer all over the carpeting..._

I'd rest in my room while my five year old brother, Gabriel, would knock on my door in that raspy way. That sensitive way, before he'd whisper-talk, _"Eeyore? Can I come in Eeyore? I made you a picture."_

But I'd turn out the lights, and pretend I was dead. Pretend I could float away. Out of my body. Up the walls. Up beyond that wretched floral wallpaper and sconce light set that my mother and father had chosen for my room during my infancy.

I'd imagine that I could float up and rest in a nook of egg-white stucco space, watching down on my little family. I'd be an energy of quiet, uncomplicated knowingness. I'd be resolutely still, and unhindered by any terrible wolfish emotion. Emotion that would so often cause me to scream-cry into my pillows for my mother after everyone else had gone off to bed.

I would try my damnedest to convince myself that death was not scary. That I wasn't terrified out of my mind for what had happened to my mom, what would happen to me, and James, and Gabriel. And even Tommy, even if at _three_ he seemed rather safe. Even if his safety was an illusion, padded though he was in a deceptive little enclave of time and space.

_No._

I would meditate on the fact that when I did finally die, I would be at peace. And that all the people I loved or would ever come to love would also be at peace. That death would grant us all the ultimate in freedom, and that everything that had pained us while alive would fade away. Scars erased.

_Wounds healed forever..._

* * *

><p>The air is cold, the light is grey and the sky is as bleak as a cannery in February. In fact, the sky is almost white. White like a dead bellied fish. A mushroom cloud, white-of-doom.<p>

_The sky is a sheet of finality draped over 7 billion corpses._

A sheet for the dead, the destined dead. Even if the appropriate colour for a smothered planet would be red. A stinging red.

_Yes, Jane. Red, indeed. The most appropriate of all colours for the horror of a life so intermingled with death._

The sky should be red, and full of golden stars that have come to pay their respect for the dying. An astral offering of **something more** to all the little clay men and women who are washed in broken bits of one another. Covered in brokenness; getting red all over the earth.

But the light today is cutting, and spears the dotted landscape. Off in the _not-too far_ distance, I can catch sight of the trees lining the establishment. A fringe group of gnarled trees, outlined in black frozen stillness, and denuded of colour.

_It got so cold this year. It turned cold, so quickly._

* * *

><p>There is a scent of red-salt-saline filling my nostrils. I choke down a swarming burst of blood as it winds its way into my throat and courses into my belly.<p>

There is no heat in the fluid. Everything in me is cold now. _My skin. My breath. My blood._ The remnant blood from my crying. So excessive for one who has always prided herself on never crying. On never shedding a tear as an adult.

And now I have cried so frequently, no profusely - that my nose won't stop spilling forth a river of crimson.

* * *

><p>I have cried every day for the past 33 days.<p>

Today is day 34, and the first day of November. A cold month. Gritty and gray and lacking in charm.

But today is the first day that I have managed _not_ to cry, and I'm taking it as a sign. A sign that I am meant to come here. Come to this place of stone and anemic walls, and men in padded rooms, dressed in starched white bindings.

_A white even more intense than a mushroom cloud sky._

Of course, the crying had to cease sooner of later. I knew this.

_It's not possible to cry forever._

It's a bodily override, I guess. And necessary given that my eyes are chronically red and swollen up now. Little raisins that have uncurled in water.

_It's a wonder they haven't closed up entirely. That I am not allergic to sight._

_Because I don't want to see this. Him. Jane. Not now. Not when (if!) he's being claimed by a devil._

My nose wouldn't stop bleeding for nearly four weeks.

But today, it did.

* * *

><p>The copper sign reads as <em>"The Browning Whitman Sanitarium,"<em> and I get out of my car to press on the intercom button. *104.

**_Reception._**

This facility is heavy-duty-intense, and surrounded by a 14 foot perimeter of wrought iron affixed with charming spokes that could easily skewer through the heart of a blue whale. The fence is interspersed with electric wiring.

_No chance for escape here. People who come here, stay here. If they try to leave, unauthorized - they die._

Set against the compound is a beatific grove of trees and climbing plants. Greenery the tortured souls housed here will probably never get to see. But _The Browning Whitman Sanitarium_ is a hospital, not a jail. Even if the exterior alone reminds me of some perverse blend of concentration camp come _The Overlook Hotel_.

No. The only way in is through.

_And the only way through is **in.** Into his mind. Into his heart.  
><em>

_In, find, grasp, hold on for dear life. **Pull him out again. Pull him out with everything I have...**  
><em>

For Jane, the only way out is... _with me_. I know that now. And I think that's why I've finally stopped crying.

I think that's why the bleeding is slowing its course.

* * *

><p>I hit the intercom buzzer with one frozen burgundy mitt. The speaker panel flares alive with a starchy burst of welcome. A woman's voice streams through to my ears.<p>

"Name, visitor ID authorization code, and nature of correspondence, please."

I try to clear the albatross from around my throat before speaking. I try to swallow away the glass shards that have imbedded themselves into my vocal chords.

"My name is...I'm Teresa Lisbon. Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon. I," and my hand shakes with my folded piece of paper. Paper of a thousand pounds. Marked in an arresting blue, with a cold ID listing. Its very necessity makes me want to bawl.

"I'm sorry, I...I'm here to see a patient. Patrick Jane. I...my code is A152T-1760. I...have authorization from Patrick's acting psychiatrist for this visit. Dr. Eugene Sattler?"

The wait is interminable.

_The wait is nothing at all._

"Thank you, Agent Lisbon. Please return to your vehicle and wait until you hear the buzz signals. The gates will open on the third buzz. Please drive through to the west end parking lot. Dr. Sattler has been informed of your arrival and will be waiting for you by the entrance of Maudsley Hall."

_Maudsley Hall. It sounds almost scholastic.  
><em>

"Thank you," I whisper after several frozen seconds.

_Thank you_, to what I'm sure is a dead intercom.

* * *

><p>A man swaddled in a white coat is waiting for my arrival. His hair is sparse, fine, and covers his cranium in a fuzzy sort of way. Like a halo.<p>

I try not to dwell too long on the symbolism, and quickly scour the car for my purse, wallet, ID. Then I rush to lock the door, and will away the relentless jolting of blood against my ribcage. The force of the beating is making me nauseous.

We stare at one another through the blueish glass of the SUV, before I gather enough courage to exit the vehicle.

"Agent Lisbon," Dr. Sattler grants me a severe nod when I finally manage to meet him on the steps. Cobblestone steps, worn and tidy, with mossy edges as if this clinic has been transported from some British sector. Not located in California at all.

Dr. Sattler extends his hand now, and the lightest impression of something that I _think_ is supposed to be a smile. Or the closest thing to a smile that the man can probably manage.

I try to do the same, but find my facial muscles will not work.

His life work, after all, is in the treatment of psychotic or dissociative men.

Deeply dissociative and ruined creatures. Men as gnarled in form as the trees that line this courtyard.

Men of expressive violence, who have come from the worst violence themselves, or who were born into outright perversion. Perversion, and ruin, and have now..._cracked._

_Even if the crack was so clean as to have been little more than a hairline fracture...it's still a crack. A break. A fracture through the soul._

"I am...encouraged by your presence, Agent," Dr. Sattler begins, still with proffered hand.

I shake his arm numbly.

"I...had to see him," I start, by way of introduction, and my voice sounds terrible, almost... unknowable. But that can't be helped. No person cries for 22 days straight and emerges from that time sounding like they haven't swallowed a vat of battery acid.

_It's a wonder I can even speak at all..._

* * *

><p>Dr. Sattler's office is not what I've been expecting. Not that I formally conceived of the space. <em>But...<em>

The room is wide, and open, and splashed in green and muted goldens. There is a statue of a character - a woman - shrouded in a purple-black gown, arms bare. Two hounds trail either side of her.

"Hecate," Dr. Sattler clarifies. "One of my patients sculpted it. Goddess of the crossroads. She inhabits the underworld, but isn't without kindness, compassion. Though dogs trail her, and screaming cries flow to her...she hears the cries of the dying, and of the ones who die before their time."

_"Before their time." What does that even mean, anyway?_

But I nod. More to be polite, than for any other reason.

"I...there are no couches?," I start suddenly, needing to change the topic of conversation._  
><em>

"We don't conduct therapy here," the doctor states easily, and for once I'm reminded of Jane. In the...very act of such perceptiveness. "This room is where I write and work on treatment plans for our patients. And where I hold meetings with family, or with..."

He seems at a loss as to what to call me. For how to classify, or categorize, my relationship with a man who killed his wife and child.

Certainly someone's _boss_ would never make a trek to this place. To the crossroads. Not to visit with someone so disordered. Someone who...

**_Don't think about it._**_ It wasn't Jane. Jane didn't do it._

_Jane never could have done that. And you're here to see Jane._

_Not Red John._

No, Dr. Sattler doesn't know how to peg me at all. For one who has given her life to catching the violent as intensely as this man has given his time to treating those captured, I must confuse him.

Agent Teresa Lisbon. Senior acting agent of the _Serious Crimes Unit_. Inquiring about a man charged with murdering nearly 30 people.

_**Don't think about it.**_

My stomach is bleeding again.

_**You can't afford to think about it.**_

Rigsby had to drive me to the hospital on Tuesday after I brought up thick cords of bile-blood. Black blood. Gritty, like coffee grounds from my wounded stomach.

"No, this is not where we hold our therapy sessions. Not with our residents, but we do offer therapy for loved ones on occasion."

I freeze. Wonder if this man is implying that I am now, by extension, also sick.

"It's alright...I am not...I-"

**_I can't do this._**

Dr. Sattler entwines his fingers. Clasps them together and rests them on his desk. To the left side of him I can see a box of Kleenex with clouds drifting lazily across a sea of purple sky. A fantastical and unreal sky, caught on a paper box covered with the words "ultra soft".

**_Obviously, people do a lot of crying in this room._**

"I understand. You...are here in hopes that Patrick can be...saved. That...despite everything that we've learned about his dysfunction and the worst of his actions, that he can be fixed."

**_"Dysfunction" is such a misleading word. It makes it sound as if Jane has a phobia of going down an elevator, or of touching door handles or something equally... tame._**

But Dr. Sattler's eyes are kind. Far kinder than what I would have associated with one who works with men of Red John's caliber. _Or worse. So much worse than that._

For one who works with good men possessed by demons.

_Good men who have apparently cut up their own wives, unaware. Their own children._

**_And how did he not know? Covered in blood? He must have been absolutely covered in blood. So much of it, and so often.  
><em>**

_Did Jane change out of one pair of clothes - clothes that he killed in, only to stagger into his bedroom? Only to find another three pieced suit, clean his body, put it on? And **forget?**  
><em>

_How could that have happened one time? Never mind twenty eight times?_

I gag on fresh grief, and look away.

"I know...something like this..._like what Jane did_...it can never be fixed. But I...I...what I_ felt_ for Jane, for _Patrick_. I can't ignore that. I can't ignore the fact that he's here, in this...place. And that he's trapped in that mind. That he's hurting. I-"

**_I can't breathe._**

"You loved him."

I can't answer that. So I look away, and think of what **doesn't. connect.**

_Did he come back into himself, while covered in blood? Did he black out and assume he was in shock?_

_Would a normal person lose such vital periods of time, only to emerge into a world of blood and dead daughters, and not wonder where they had been? Or did Jane's mind fabricate a rational way to explain the fractures of time in that evening?  
><em>

"You love him," Dr. Sattler says again. This time in present tense, his voice resolute.

"I...," **oh god**, "_yes_."

If my voice has broken on such a simple word, then how am I going to get through this day? How am I even going to be able to _see_ him? To look at that face? Look into those blue eyes? That head, cloaked in caramel curls...and not want to scream?

"You may consider this next question somewhat intrusive, but if you can please provide me with an honest and full response, it would be of most benefit to Patrick," the doctor begins in his certain quiet strength.

"You don't need to...," I whisper.

_I know what's going to be asked next.  
><em>

"Were you _in love_ with Patrick?"

I frown at the floor, and bite back an erupting sob.

"I...I've never been in love before," I provide lamely, feeling nothing but red hot shame at my admittance.

_**I am breaking down in confusion.**_

Confusion not just over my growing feelings for Jane, but in my recent and equally growing anxiety that something was **WRONG. with. him**.

And to have those fears confirmed so terribly?

_Because** I** figured this out. I pieced it together. 12 years, no leads, inconclusive DNA evidence. _

_And something in his eyes had horrified me one evening. A relatively normal night, Jane cloistered away in his attic. His head had been hurting him. All day, it had been tormenting him. I wanted to take him to the hospital._

_His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed almost... _

"Are you saying that you don't know...what you felt? Or what you feel, if those feelings are still present?"

_And in my horror, I could barely believe the look I found in his eyes. Like a cow before a knife. Wide open eyes. The scent of blood. Jane's eyes had filled with a flowering spastic shaking of his head, back and forth, while I lay down re-tested DNA in a cross comparison report. _

_Fear.  
><em>

_"What's this?"_

_His voice tinged with a knowing, omniscient horror._

_"There is a 90% match, but inconclusive features. It's a genetic coding test. Your DNA against the..."_

_I was a robot, then - that night. **I had to be.** But even Robot-me could not go on. Could not explain that the DNA from the crime scene had been offered up from a source of spattered semen, and not blood or hair follicles. DNA traces far easier to excuse. To explain away, if I could take some time and reach for some sort of creative alternative._

_And that this DNA held a greater than average link to Patrick's own blood? A far greater than average connection? Too close to be denied._

_"This...we...," my voice was shaking, so I had to stop. "Tell me how this can be, Jane." And he couldn't. His head, his eyes, his whole body rasping out NO as if NO was his word for God._

_And his voice, when he finally spoke, pleading.  
><em>

_"I...don't remember what happened. Lisbon. Why...would I hurt those people?"_

_But that fucking fear. Like he knew all along. Like...he **knew deep down**, and he hid it. He hid away his own suspicions, and pushed away the very nugget of possibility. _

_That terror. _

_"I wouldn't have done this. I couldn't have done this. I'm not-"_

_His voice...disjointed and bizarre, and only later would I realize...it sounded very much like the voice of a dying man. And then the largest jolt. The jolt that stopped his heart. And I knew when the very thought finally cut through, and registered.  
><em>

_That he hadn't just killed women. Strangers. That these results didn't indicate the fact that he was profoundly sick. The sickest of the sick. But that, by extension, he had killed his own wife._

_His little daughter. His five year old child. _

_"No, Lisbon. I...Charlotte. I gave her CPR. I-" His skin was the colour of chalk._

_"I tried to breathe life back into her body! I didn't want her to die!"_

_**And the gagging had been immediate.** Vomit all over the ground before I could grab him a waste-bin. Pain etched in his features as if I had been branding him. Burning him. The others had already been outside the attic. Standing guard. Cho, with his hand at his hip, gun at the ready. His eyes flickering back and forth in awareness.  
><em>

_Ready to take Jane out in a single shot. But no hatred in his gaze._

_And Rigsby, sturdy Rigsby. Holding Jane against the floor once the panic bubbled to an intensity none of us had been prepared for, and had encouraged him to flee. _

_Because there could be no more running.  
><em>

"Do you feel that it is wrong to feel love for him?," Dr. Sattler asks me with less caution now, and the reminder that I do in fact **_love Jane_** effectively cuts through the empty scatterings of any false civility.

"No! I...," **breathe**, "what does that have to do with anything?"

I'm so hot with emotions that won't die down - even in the illumination of Red John's identity._ But I don't want to be awaken yet again._

"I'm not here for *me*, doctor. I don't need therapy," I rasp, when all I receive for my troubles is silence.

"You truly believe that you can emerge from this, without problems of your own?"

My head whips up from floor to golden brown eyes. Hazelnut eyes.

"I don't need therapy. I'm not _sick_," I growl, now defensive.

Those hazel eyes still so unbelievably fixated on me. The intensity of the gaze reminds me of Jane. When Jane was _Jane._

"Sickness stems from trauma. Do you want to state that what has happened to you in this situation... is in no way traumatic?"_  
><em>

"You think...you think _this is my fault?_ I...I knew something was wrong with him but I never-"

"Teresa. _No_," a muted voice, and suddenly my cold hands are cradled by warm ones, and that makes me want to cry. "You did not _make this happen_. This was already happening all the time. All the time, behind the scenes."

I study the ridge patterns of the oak desk. The knots in the wood. Like blood clots in a vein. Death, ever at the fore. _Ever ready._

"I...never saw him change. From Jane...to someone violent. I never _saw that._ Not once. Not once in eight years."

_The last time I roused from the sleep of ignorance, it almost crushed me._

_I do not want to be roused again.  
><em>

"I...how do we know?," I plead, "How...couldn't,_ couldn't this be a breakdown?_ Because...he's...the guilt! The guilt, and his sense of...complicity, in tempting Red John, and how-"

The pressure of warmth increases. Another notch on the ladder of death.

"This is...denial, Teresa. You've read the literature that I sent to your home, haven't you? On Patrick's formal diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder? His...splintering of personality into that of the serial killer, which he calls Red John?"

_I cannot afford to lose my ignorance. Not when knowledge hurts this deeply._

"There's no proof, though. _Nothing conclusive._ Suggestions. There are suggestions, and there is-"

"It's more than a suggestion, Teresa. Those DNA results..."

"It's not 100%, and with his...breakdown? In the past?"

Root-beer eyes, patient and still.

_I have the floor._

"I know what it looks like," I try again. "But I knew Jane, before this...his...this _thing_. This episode. And he's not evil. He's not even violent. He talks about violence, because he wants to...kill Red John. He wants to annihilate anything evil. But I know he's a good person."

My eyes are pleading in necessity.

"Patrick Jane _is_ a good person," the doctor agrees, after a ten second lag. "But he's a sick person. He is severely mentally ill, Teresa. His body has been the vehicle for extreme violence even if another mind has been responsible for those killings, and that's exactly how you have to look at it, now."

"I can't believe that. I didn't fall in love with..._with_-"

Dr. Sattler's eyes register awareness at my admittance, and he intersects the conversation - this time to my relief.

"That's how...a court has looked at it. That's why he's here, Teresa - and not in jail. Because Patrick is not a killer. _Red John_ is a killer. Patrick's body houses two different minds - more than two, actually - but one of those minds - ONE of those people, is the person you fell in love with, and the person who is in this clinic, now. The person who is hurting. And that's exactly how you have to think of it when you're in there with him."

I press against the table with the palms of my hands and try to stop the trembling in my limbs.

If anything, the attempt makes my body revolt all the more.

* * *

><p>"Would you like for me to accompany you inside?"<p>

I stare at the door to Jane's room as if it is a venomous snake.

"I...have to do this alone."

Dr. Sattler nods, and then untangles a security card from his pockets. Before drawing the plastic through the black lock box, he reiterates the format of expected conduct one more time.

_As if I could forget..._

"He has had...a tapered dose of Haloperidol today. Far less than what he's been on for the last two weeks. We have been weaning him off the drug since Tuesday. But he's still going to be incredibly drowsy. It's not uncommon for patients dealing with the severity of Patrick's affliction to...revert to stronger personalities during times of great anxiety. It's possible..."

My mouth is dry and tastes of something foul.

"Red John," I wheeze, sans preamble. "I can't...go in, and see him if-"

_The fact that his hands and legs are fettered by a straight jacket is not my concern._

_My concern is that I will search Jane's eyes for some type of recognition. _

_And I will find it._

_But not in the man I know._

"No...not at all. I...would not leave you alone with Patrick for a moment if I thought Red John would make an appearance. In fact, the only personality of violence that has emerged since his admittance here...has, well, it has never been Red John."

_**It has never been Red John.**_

Never Red John.

_But another personality? Another violent personality?_

**_But not Red John?_**

_I'm missing something. **What am I missing?**  
><em>

"_Who_ then?," I stress, noting absently that I'm being downright rude now, but lacking the energy to correct for it. "How can you determine _any_ of this? Did Jane TELL you that he was a different person? Because Jane had a breakdown before, Dr. Sattler. He's tried to kill himself before."

_I don't know why I'm fighting him on this. I was the one that obtained the DNA sample. I am the one who went to La Roche, my gut a tangled, knotted mess. I am the one who even thought it *possible* in the first place._

"It was a different personality, Teresa. A very...removed personality. The gate keeper personality that oversees Patrick's functioning. It is not normally...violent. But it has acted aggressively on occasion. Yesterday, for example."

_Jesus, how often has this happened? And why have I never seen it? How could none of us **never** have seen it? _

"In the last six days, it has been the dominant personality. The man you know...is still in there, somewhere, but I had to prepare you for the possibility that you may not get to talk to him today."

After everything that has happened, this statement shouldn't make me want to cry._ But it does._

_Because I haven't seen Jane in over a month._

_And if I go in there, looking for him, and he's not there..._

_If someone else is there, instead...  
><em>

"Maybe he'll come because I'm..._I_ came. I'm here. He knows me."

My voice is a litany on the air. One, I hope, that will be carried through white padded bodies and locked up hearts.

When the doctor doesn't answer, I go for practicality.

"What do I call him? If it's not Patrick? Not in there, today, I mean?"

Dr. Sattler suddenly looks haggard.

"He will tell you his name. If it's someone else, he will let you know."

* * *

><p>The room smells like hand sanitizer.<p>

Hand sanitizer and lemons.

The man I know as Patrick Alexander Jane sits off in the left hand corner of the room, his body wrapped up in a straight jacket. The genuine article.

If the entire situation wasn't so ghastly, I would have probably been compelled to laugh. As it stands, Jane's head is slumped to rest against his chest. His legs have fallen over to one side in a heap, and his chest and thorax lay flush against the ground. His eyes are closed, and his breaths seem evenly timed.

For one moment, I'm convinced that he's sleeping - _or possibly, crazily_ - cat napping. Like he always used to do at the CBI. But the logical part of me knows this isn't true, and so I reach out with an almost butterfly lightness to touch the top of his head with my hand. His face is drawn, and angular. He looks thin.

_Far too thin..._

He shirks away and makes a noise not unlike a frenzied animal. Low and ripping. Deep from an inner cavity full of nothing but pain.

I shrink back. The room suddenly seems brighter than is possible, and the lemon spray suddenly stings my skin and lungs.

_This is real.  
><em>

"Jane. It's...me, Jane. It's...Lisbon."

_God have mercy._

Jane's eyes rise to half mast, and he stares unblinkingly at the white wall before him.

He's listening._ Or...**someone** is listening._ I fight down assailing chills, and make no move to remove my coat._  
><em>

"It's...I'm sorry, Patrick. That I couldn't come right away. I _couldn't_...but I missed you. So much."

_I choke down something huge._

Jane's eyelids flutter.

"I missed you so much. Please talk to me."

I'm whispering. But _someone_ is hearing. And then, impossibly small and low to the ground.

"Lisbon?"

His eyes are open. He should be able to see me.

And he can.

_But that's not the point. The point is now - in this place of whiteness and drugs - he doubts what he sees and he doubts what he knows._

I move forward carefully. Like I would with an injured dog. One hit by a car.

One whose guts are strewn all over the street, but who is somehow still alive.

Dying, but not dead.

_Not yet._

_"Lisbon?"_ There's a keening need when he says my name the second time, and I want to cry with equal parts relief and heart break.

"Yes, Jane. It's me."

My hand drifts up to his face with less fear this time, even though my hand is now a ghost hand coming to reach for a corpse body. _We are both so cold._

His eyes close at my touch, and I can see his ribs through his white starched top. His breathing accelerates into something erratic then, before he lets out a sob, quickly stifled down into something repressed as my fingertips move to cover his eyes.

"It's...," _it's not good to see him. Not in this place. But it's.._.,"oh God, Jane, I've missed you. I never stopped missing you."

And even though his eyes are squished closed - _as if he's a little boy, watching a terrifying movie_ - I can feel that he's crying. I can feel the wetness against my hand.

This time his sob isn't so well contained, and I move up from my knees, to come around to his back. I come around, and press my own body between the wall, and collect Jane like he's a rag doll. He tumbles into my arms and lets me hold him. There's no fight left. No resistance.

He curls up in my arms and cries soundlessly. His entire body shakes, and in a different lifetime, in different clothes, in a different setting...I might have thought he was laughing. Laughing on mute.

But he's drowning in the motion, and when I finally hear an intake of breath, I grasp for him with a surge of fierce love that will not ever die.

Even if this broken body houses a personality that has in fact killed, I still love him.

"I...I," and he's choking on _I's._

"I know," I cry, and somehow, without realizing it...I've started to rock him like my mother used to do with me when I was so little.

"I'm...so scared, Lisbon," he breathes against my neck.

"I know," I whisper. "I'm scared too." Because, really - there is no reason to talk any louder. We are pressed as closely together as a couple making love, and no one else is here. And I'm only interested in talking to Jane; everyone else in this building is _irrelevant_ to me. It sounds harsh, but it's true.

"I don't..._I don't._..," and his voice is etched with some emotion, undefinable.

_Or maybe it's every horrible emotion...all at once._ Because for all the pain I'm feeling at the moment, I am feeling it for HIM. Yet when I leave this building, I know that my own mind is clear. _My own mind is sane._

While Jane is not sane. Not fully. He's only sane enough that _from time to time_ he can grasp the horror of what's happening. And like a lightening strike, straight to my core, his voice weeps into my ear.

"I'm a _monster_." He's choking on tears and it makes me want to rage.

_How could you fucking do this to him, God?_

"You are **not** a monster," I deny, even though I know that he cannot hear my words. Not fully. "You're sick."

"They say I cut them...all of them. That I cut my child up with a knife. I don't remember, I don't. They said I did. I don't..._I have no memory of hurting anyone_."

His voice is shrill, and the words are breaking down as _he_ breaks down. The expression of his overwhelm is childlike at best, and the innocence in his expression makes my heart break even more.

"I don't want to be a bad person."

"You are not a bad person, Patrick."

His body won't stop trembling, and I can sense unimaginable panic at the fringe of his mind.

_I know, because I can feel it at the edge of my own._

"I cut them. _I don't remember._ I..."

"**_You_** didn't cut them," I breathe.

"The doctor says that_ something_ in me cut them," he breathes back, and for one crazy moment I feel as if our breath is connected. As if the only reason either one of us can talk at all is because we are breathing into each other. Giving each other life.

And I can't argue with this voice. This child-like voice. Because, maybe, just maybe..._I am_ talking to the child personality. Maybe I'm not even talking to _adult Jane_.

_And how the hell would I know, anyway?_

"I'm scared," Jane reiterates, although this time he's not crying.

I don't want him to shut down entirely, so I hold onto him with even greater force.

"What else? What else can you feel?"

I hear him lick his lips.

"It get's dark in here. They turn the lights off when it's night time, and it gets so dark. There's no moon. And then I think I'm dead, and that I'm in hell."

Jane sounds so much like a child that alarm bells are going off in my head.

I stop my rocking, but come to rest my hands against his temples for a moment as if the motion can still his racing thoughts. I then move the soft material of his jacket out of the way as much as possible, and try to place my hand over his chest.

"Your heart is going way too fast," I mutter in concern, more to myself than to him, before I shift his weight somewhat in my arms. My arms already burn from the effort.

He turns his face inwards even more.

"_Lisbon_, I can't..._if I did that_..."

_He doesn't want to live._

I know. I get it.

_He doesn't need to say the words._

Because I can already smell death closing in. It's on his tongue. It's hiding under his clothing, pressing against his body. It's so close to him.

And what's more: he's _attracted_ to death.

_Jane wants to die._

"Listen to me, Jane. I...," I swallow down congestion. Four week old tears and blood. "I love you. I won't let anything like that happen to you. I'm..._we're_...going to get through this."

He closes his eyes, but says nothing. So I lean in close to sense how advanced he is in his pursuit of dying. The scent of his breath is... fruity. Acetone and juicy fruit gum, all mixed up in one. The scent of nail polish remover and chemical fruit.

**_His body is eating his muscle..._**

"God damn it, Jane. I can feel your fucking _bones._"

_Why is no one making him eat? Why isn't he outfitted with an IV?_

**Ketoacidosis**. His body is starving. His spine is starting to protrude through his clothing.

"I want to die, Lisbon."

And his voice is pleading with me. Pleading with me, as if he can convince me to help him achieve death. As if this is a reasonable favor to ask from a friend.

_From so much more than a friend._..

"Damn it, you think I'm just going to let you _die_? Let you starve to death?"

I am about to go and get his doctor, and have this situation corrected for when I hear his voice.

"Teresa. _Please let me go."_

I stop my tirade, and fall quiet alongside him. It's stupid, really. _It won't fix him._

_But did he really think I'll help him **kill** himself?_

"I want to die," he whispers, this time with a staggering reduction in emotion. His voice soft and chilled, as if he's relaying a secret.

_*shush, don't tell. shush.*_

_"Please...please help me-"_

"No," I hiss, cutting him off. "_No_."

His words turn from resigned acceptance, to a gasping sort of retreat, as if I've kicked him; when the convulsion of his throat doesn't abate after a full minute, I realize that this is not mere disappointment. For him, this is an amnesty, denied. For him..._this is evidence that I hate him._

That I want him to _suffer._

_When nothing could be further from the truth...  
><em>

_He must not have been listening when I told him that I loved him._

I stroke his head in weak consolation, not knowing how to translate my thoughts into words that he will hear.

"I know you feel like you can't trust...anything right now," and I still as his tongue, heavy and drugged, laps at my hand. He can't cry anymore. He's too tired to scream. So he's pleading flesh to flesh. Gasping into my skin.

"Jane...," and I want to shake him. _Oh God how I want to shake him and make him *hear*.  
><em>

"I am here, because deep down...sick or not...I do not believe you killed those women," I stress.

I can feel his teeth, biting so lightly when he could just so easily bite me to the bone. And my heart is more certain with every passing second that he's innocent.

That he's as innocent as he is sick. That even if these two conditions seem contradictory, that somehow they are true.

_And I'm missing something._

**_I'm missing something massive._**

"I do not _believe that you killed your family_."

And I have logical reasons for my steadily growing disbelief, despite an illness suggesting otherwise. Despite the DNA evidence.

"You're sick, Jane. I know that. I know that _you_ know that. And I know that it terrifies you. This mental illness, whatever this condition is that's got its claws in you. But..."

**Anyone can see _that he's ill.  
><em>**

_But I don't believe that he's killed anyone._

Even if Van Pelt, Rigsby, Cho and La Roche all believe this is my way of dealing with grief. That this is how I will come to say goodbye to Jane. Protesting his innocence, while he slips away into a world of drugs and electroshock therapy and resolute starvation.

_Grieving, and denying reality, just as Jane would have wanted to deny the death of his family._

Because to the rest of the world, Jane does look mad; his teeth, now, grazing my palm. His whole body shaking with a scream he's never fully released.

And I know what _this is._ This motion, as strange as it is. He's in pain. _But he's restraining his pain._ He could hurt me. He could cause me to **bleed.** He could bite me and nip me.

_But he won't._

Subconsciously or not, he's both communicating his horror, but also testifying his innocence.

He could tear into me like a rabid animal, and I know this. We both know this. And I know the fact that he's implicating as much tells me just how crushed he is by the very _suggestion._

So this, ironically, is his show of affection.

This is his _kiss._

Not a kiss of mouth to mouth. Lips against lips.

But lips and teeth and tongue against my hand, and in this simple feeling of his tongue and his teeth and his shuddering yearning to scream, and not to scream...I know this is his protest.

A protest of ultimate innocence in the face of damnation and judgment.

And suddenly, when I let my free arm scroll down his back to rub over bone nubs and vertebrae, and too-cold flesh, I realize why I have come here at all.

And it's not simply that I love him, and that I'll always love Patrick Jane, despite the suggestion that something inside him has killed.

But I'm here for a purpose. A reason.

_I am here to find the clues that will free him from this hell._

**I am here to prove his innocence.**_  
><em>


	2. Chapter 2

**Title - House of Cards - Part 2/3**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: "**If I don't respond, my mind gets loud. Loud and _repetitive_. Like it did with Red John. When I had to find him. And I was looking so hard. The irony chokes me. The irony curls around my throat like syrup and makes me sputter."/ Jisbon-centric

**A/N: **This chapter is from Jane's perspective. (As if you guys wouldn't have figured that out mega-quickly) ;)

For the record, since I'm now the proud holder of the season 3 DVD's (and since I finished watching the special featurette on the discs last night), I think it's safe to assume that, at least in canon - Patrick Jane will never be revealed to be Red John (either as a profoundly psychopathic person, or as linked to Red John through something like...dissociative identity disorder (what shrinks used to call Multiple Personality Disorder)). Bruno Heller himself even referenced that the audience would feel "cheated" if they went that route; apparently Simon Baker was suspicious. XD

**Please note:** this chapter was highly experimental. Even for me.

**Also please note ;):** this chapter is completely un-beta-ed, and my spell check option wasn't working. And I'm an atrocious speller naturally, so... yeah. All mistakes are obviously my own.

* * *

><p><strong>AN, part deux: I saw this quote, and immediately thought of Lisbon:**

_"A hero is someone that can see death everyday, and still have hope for the world."_

- Chae Richardson

* * *

><p>_<strong>WEDNESDAY MORNING_<strong>

* * *

><p>Winston is here now. He's decent to me.<p>

I might be a monster, but he's almost as nice to me as Lisbon.

"Hey Patrick, hey _buddy_," he tells me softly.

Winston is a nurse-orderly.

A _norderly. _

I'm too tired to smile. And I'm too rotten inside to ever laugh again.

"What's so funny?"

But I must have smiled. _Somehow._

Even though my face feels like 100 lb weights are holding it down.

"You're a norderly."

_My head is full of bees. A million bees, all buzzing. _

Winston looks confused.

"A _what_?," he clarifies, his mouth quipping up. Amused.

"An orderly and a nurse all in one."

Someone has sand papered my throat. It hurts to talk. Dr. Sattler says it's because I scream sometimes.

_I don't remember._

"Ahhh. A norderly. Of course," Winston grins.

_No. That's not entirely true._

_Sometimes I remember, and sometimes I don't._

Suddenly there is a needle in front of my eyes, and Winston is tapping on it to release the bubbles. _Wouldn't want a bubble to go into my vein and stop my heart..._

"Just something to help you calm down, buddy."

_Have I been screaming again? _

Dr. Sattler tells me that I scream sometimes.

I lick my lips.

"How much?"

Winston gives me an encouraging smile.

"Not too much, Patrick. 40 mg. Less than half of what you had just last week, even."

I was on 100 mg Haldol every four hours for the first three weeks that I was in the clinic, and 90 mg for the next two weeks. I couldn't even stay awake. Never mind _think._ Maximum daily dose for my body weight, I think they said. If they had given Lisbon that much...well... _They'd be looking at an overdose. No question._

I'm not complaining about my dosage level, though.

_I don't want to think. _

Winston directly injects the medication into my line. It was 'installed' yesterday. I think Lisbon is responsible for that, too. The IV, I mean. And the fluids. And the extra blankets. And Winston...being my main nurse now. Replacing Gordon-the-hulk, who held me down when I got upset last week, and puffed up my chin in the process.

He was a little rough with me, I admit. But then again...

_Gordon has a three year old daughter named Annabelle._

So he must think I'm a demon.

_Can't say that I blame him._

Anyhow, Lisbon made a fuss. I heard her yelling in the hallway, from my room. High on Haldol, and even in that state - I could hear her clear as day.

_"__You are damn lucky that I don't take you in for booking right now, Mr. Demmit!"_

Gordon got in a good couple hits to render me silent... And dislodged a tooth in the process. Now there's an empty spot in my mouth that my tongue plays with.

__If only that was the only gap inside of me... __

Lisbon blew a gasket, she was so angry.

Not at _me. _

_With someone else. Someone who had hurt me._

_"He's tired and he's sick because he's been fucking traumatized! And I don't care what the hell you think of him as a person; I know him. He's a good man!"_

Apparently I was dehydrated.

_"I can feel his ribs and his spine, Dr. Sattler - so obviously you aren't doing your job at all! Look at his face! He looks like he just got out of Bergen Belsen, for Christ's sake!"_

Apparently I wasn't eating enough, either.

_And to me, she said:_

_"I do not believe that you killed your family."_

_And to me, she said:_

_"Please...please eat something, Patrick."_

* * *

><p><em>My hair was wet with sweat and my bowels hurt from spasming.<em>

_ And when I went to the bathroom...there was blood._

_Winston stood right outside, after he undid the clasps around my hand._

_"You know the drill, man."_

_So he talked from the other side of the door, and I tried to answer his questions, buzzed on anti-psychotics._

_"So it's chili con carne day. With those little brownie pudding cups. You'd like those..."_

I hadn't eaten solid food in nearly four weeks. Broth, and the odd bit of tapioca.

_"My stomach hurts, Winston."_

_"Baby steps, Pat. Just little bits. You go talk to Melanie, and ask for a brownie..."_

He didn't get that I meant,_ "I'm in pain, now..."_

So I used the washroom, and I passed blood...

Just more and more red each time I went...

_...and the pain felt like glass._

* * *

><p>I wanted to scream and scream, and she said:<p>

_"I love you"_

and

she said:

_"I do not believe that you killed your family."_

_Lisbon's hand came over my eyes, and she said, "shussh, no...it's okay, Jane. You need to sleep, and I want you to sleep. Sleep for me, ok?"_

_And she held me; I was so tired, and she knew it, and she told me I could sleep and that she wouldn't leave me._

_ I just turned on my side and she drew me into her and the pain in my heart eased up a little bit. Just a tiny little bit. I wanted to hold her, but I couldn't, because I was tied down._

_And she knew that too, because she said: "it's okay; I have you Patrick. I have you, and I'm not going to let go of you, okay? Not ever."_

The words were enough to make me cry, but not scream.

And Lisbon just held me.

I cried, and she didn't let go.

She was the only person who has never let go.

Who never ever let go of me.

Even when I cried.

* * *

><p><em>"I do not believe..."<em>

**I play it over and over again in my head.**

_"I do not believe..."_

_"...that you killed your family."_

According to Lisbon, I am sick.

Not a monster.

_But she was so upset._

_She said she could feel my "fucking bones."_

Lisbon never swears, really.

Almost never.

Unless she's very mad.

**Or very scared.**

* * *

><p>And then Dr. Sattler came into the room.<p>

Came in with two orderlies, and 'set up' an IV.

_"This isn't a long term fix, Mr. Jane. You still need to eat solid food."_

I was crying then, too. Again. Hating myself for it - unable to keep the etching upset out of my throat. But the crying then was different. It was rawer and hopeless.

Before, with Lisbon, I had only shed Relief-tears. Tired-tears. Don't-let-go tears.

But with the doctor, my body was cold. The tears were cold. Because to him, I was a monster.

_"Please...I don't...want it," I panted. "Please...no...please STOP."_

Dr. Sattler just watched me.

His eyes were pure fire.

_"Oh, you're not getting out of it that easily, Patrick."_

I think he even smiled.

Like it made him happy.

To see me cry.

* * *

><p>The only thing that kept me going at all then, was Lisbon.<p>

She held up a hand and said,_ "Just a moment! He's scared. Can't you see that he's fucking scared?"_

I heard the doctor sigh when she pulled me into a hug, and whispered just to me, only to me:

_"This won't be bad. This will be nothing. I will be right here with you, the entire time. Easy peasy, huh? Right here with you, Patrick." _

A soft warmth of lips by my ear, and then the kiss was over as quickly as I realized she had kissed me at all.

_**'Easy peasy', she said.** Like I was a little kid._

_Like suddenly...I was 5. _

And my throat wouldn't work. I have always been a little...apprehensive of needles.

I admit it.

But I've never had them administered against my will. And the thought that someone would put it into me, against my will...

**_i couldn't breathe fast enough, deep enough. _**

**_i couldn't get enough oxygen._**

**_i couldn't breathe._**

**_I CAN'T BREATHE._**

**_Not enough to stay alive._**

* * *

><p><em>"I'll...drink...water. I'll eat, Lisbon," <em>I begged her, but I couldn't stop shaking.

Still, Lisbon demanded that they feed me.

_"No...please, Lisbon, no, no. PLEASE!," _and the panic went from gray and brown to red red RED at the edges of my sight and I couldn't swallow down the fear fast enough._ "Please no...I doan wantit, i doan, no!"_

_And then little-me was kicking up quite a storm and crying, and crying **inside** and then suddenly screaming, and then I was on my back - big-me, I mean - and my cheek was pressed against the mat of the floor, and my tears were going down my throat and everything tasted like salt, and then bile, and then vomit._

And all I could think was:

_THIS DOESN'T MAKE SENSE._

And all I could think was:

_I haven't eaten. What am I bringing up?_

And all I could hear was Lisbon, and her voice, and her:

_"Oh my god."_

When I swallowed, all I could taste was blood.

* * *

><p>I think Lisbon said...<p>

I think she said that she Loved me.

**_"I love you."_**

I think.

_And then a nurse wiped my mouth, and I closed my eyes, or maybe Lisbon closed my eyes, and someone else - someone not nice - pulled down the cloth over my chest, and I didn't even move, I didn't cry, I just stayed very still (**little mouse. don't move. don't cry. crying makes it worse. crying makes it real**) and then soft hands on my face, my cheek, stroking, going, "Jane, Jane...come on, open your eyes, they are done. No more needles. All done... PATRICK!"_

_I couldn't open my eyes. No. No. It's not done. It's never done so quick._

And then the soft voice,_ "What's wrong with him?"_

And the soft voice, right by my ear,_ "come on Jane. I know...I know you're scared. But they are done, now. It's all done now."_

**_Little mouse don't move don't cry cryingmakesitworse_**

**_Be still._**

_Be still._

_be. still. _

_doanevenbreathe_

* * *

><p>I can't feel anything properly, anymore.<p>

I can just feel THEM.

* * *

><p>Lisbon says she's been reading up on my condition; she says it's linked to trauma.<p>

_Of course it's linked to trauma._

She says she's read that it's linked to _childhood_ trauma, specifically. Almost always. And most frequently, it's linked to torture, or rape.

Or _both._

* * *

><p><em>She thought I was sleeping. My eyes were closed. <em>

_She thought I was sleeping._

_"Oh god, sweetheart. What happened to you?"_

_I didn't open my eyes. I let her think that I couldn't hear her._

**_She thought I was sleeping._**

_"What happened to you, Patrick?"_

_She called me sweetheart._

_Sweetheart._

_Sweet-heart._

_My heart pounded harder and harder._

_I couldn't open my eyes._

_My heart was pounding out of my chest._

_Because she called me sweet-heart._

_Because she cared._

_Something inside my chest was breaking open. _

_Little pistachio nut being cracked. Opened up._

_And it shouldn't hurt. Not really._

_She called me sweet-heart._

_That shouldn't hurt._

**_But it did._**

_It hurt more than getting an IV put right into my chest._

_It hurt even more than _that.

* * *

><p>"Did I scream?," I ask Winston, suddenly. My throat is dry. Like I <em>have<em> been screaming again.

_If I did, I don't remember..._

"Nah - but you were agitated at lunch. Remember, buddy?"

I remember _that._ Soup, and crackers. And a spoon.

_Minestrone soup all over the wall. The plastic dish and spoon on the floor, overturned._

"I'm sorry," I say with yellow-drugged dullness. I might as well apologize while I still can remember what I've done wrong..._._

"Don't worry about it, Pat. Just a bit of soup. No harm, really."

Winston calls me 'Pat.' He's actually decent to me, and I have no idea why. He must not have gotten the memo that I'm a monster.

"You're not a monster, Patrick. You're here because you are sick."

Winston crouches down low now, on his haunches. I'm reminded of a bear. A friendly brown bear. He even smells like honey, little bit.

"You are sick, but we're gonna fix you."

"They say I killed my family. If I did that, no one can ever fix me. If I did that...to those...women...and my wife, and _to my little," don'tthinkSTOP,"to my, to my daughter_...I will...do it. I will have to do it. I will find a way; I'll use anything, and I'll be successful next time, I promise you that-"

**_I'm in outer space._**

**_I'm so cold._**

**_And my lungs are going to burst from this pressure._**

Winston stops what he's doing.

"Jesus, man. Come on now, Patrick! Don't go talking like that. You want back on suicide watch?"

_At first I wasn't strapped down._

_But then I hurt myself. _

* * *

><p>I bit deeply into my wrist.<p>

It hurt so much more than using something sharp.

But they had taken everything sharp away from me. Pre_cautionary._

"No. I...I,_ Winston," _and a horrible sob is racketing around in my heart and making a lot of noise in there. Banging on the ventricles, and all I can remember is the blinding pain of when I bit down on my skin as hard as I could...

_It spurted red._

"Remember what Teresa said, buddy? She's not convinced? 'Member?"

_I bit into the flesh and ruptured a vein._

"But if I did hurt...them, I will...do it. I will..."

"You keep that up...keep talking like that..." and Winston now points to the straight jacket. The crazy-loon garment of choice for tired doctors and norderlies, "and they'll _never_ let you outta that thing, man."

* * *

><p>Winston talks like he came from a ghetto. But he didn't. Unless you call Chicago a ghetto.<p>

**_'Lisbon came from Chicago'_**, says my mind.**_ 'Definitely not a ghetto.'_**

"I know," I whisper.

If I don't respond, my mind gets loud. Loud and _repetitive_. Like it did with Red John. When I had to find him. And I was looking so hard. The irony chokes me. The irony curls around my throat like syrup and makes me sputter. An ironic syrupy snake that makes me gag.

"Who are ya talking to there, buddy?," and Winston pushes on the cannula end now. They've put a Hickman line into my chest. They use it to administer the Haloperidol and fluids. I'm not positive that's the name - Hickman; I was fighting them on it. But whatever it's called, it means that they can take my blood, and give me drugs until I'm_ zonked out mellow. Which is better than crazy_.

The good news is that at least they don't have to poke me with needles over and over again every single day.

**_'Lisbon asked for it'_**, my mind supplies. **_'It hurt more at first, but it hurts far less in the long run. And Lisbon is all about the long run with you, isn't she, Patty?'_**

"Please stop talking," I breathe-plead-beg._ "You're...not real."_

Winston now, all fuzzy and faint:

"Pat? Hey...it's just you and me here, Patrick."

"I know that!," and my voice is sharp, because I'm terrified, "I'm not..._delusional_," I say with greater force now to Winston. Only to Winston.

I will NOT cry.

**_'I think "Winston" is an awesome name'_**, says my mind. **_'Tell him. Tell him his name is awesome.'_**

"No," I whisper, and I hear Winston moan_: _"Come on man, you know we can't just let you stop your meds cold turkey."

_Winston thinks I'm begging with him? For no more meds?_

**_'He obviously doesn't appreciate the severity of your 'sickness','_** says my other mind. **_'Except you're not sick, Pat-Pat. You're creative and clever. You got out of the bad stuff because you had Us. You would have broken into a million pieces without Us...'_**

"You _did_ break me," I sputter-cry, because I can't fight it any more. I know I can't._ I know it doesn't matter who sees anymore. It takes too much energy to ignore them._

Winston shakes his head.

**_'He thinks you are bonkers, but you're not. You are a talented persons', _**whoops my second mind. Or maybe it's my third. The one that is bold and playful, but always needs to be right.**_ 'A genius among the crazies. Saner in your insanities than most people are sane in their sanity.'_**

"Please stop... _please leave me alone_," I choke. "I wan't you to go away."

I hear Winston sigh in response.

**_'It sounds like a Butler's name_, _Winston. Doesn't it?',_** says voice number 2. It's an old voice. Decades old. Eons old. I have known this voice since I was little. So little, I couldn't even read well. But now it scares me.

**_'Yet Winston himself talks like a gang-banger. How wonderfully amusing!'_**

"Shut up," I plead. "Shut up and leave me alone!"

This time Winston looks at me with firmness in his eyes. With res-o-lution.

**_'He wants to fix you. Like Lis-bon. Oh, how charming!'_**

"Patrick," Winston is tilting my chin up to meet him face-to-face, eye-to-eye; he's figured out why I'm scared.

**_Because I'm nuts._**

**_I'm nuts, and I don't want to be nuts._**

"It's just you and me, man. No one else is in the room, buddy."

I squirm on the ground and before long Winston is sitting next to me.

"Hey man," he says softly. "Your mind is playing tricks on you, but that's okay. And you know why everything's gonna be okay in the end? Cause people care about you, man. It's...well...you're not always gonna be like this, ya hear me? I promise you...one day, you're gonna look back on this time, and think, "I beat this. It was a dark time, but I got through it.""

I can't look at him. My face feels hot.

I guess Winston's done with the Haldol; I guess I'm going to go to sleep soon. Pity too. He's on a roll.

"But there's no shame in being scared."

"I'm not 'shamed."

I might be losing my mind, sure, but I can appreciate the fact that a normal person would find this _embarrassing._

Winston smile-talks.

"Right. Sure you're not. You're plenty aware how it all looks, and even that's a gift. Means you're far more sane than anything else, buddy. That's all that means."

I turn away from him, now.

"Hey...no...no, _aww, Pat_," the black man says, and draws my body into his. "It's okay. Normal to be overwhelmed."

He puts my head onto his lap. The action reminds me of Lisbon. I don't mind.

"I don't want to be like this," I breathe to the ceiling. "I want...everything to stop _spinning around. I want to be...normal. I want them back. I want Angela and Charlotte back."_

"I know that, man. And your friend, Teresa? She knows that's how you feel, too. She has so much faith in you, buddy...and she's a smart lady. She thinks you're gonna get through this, and so do I."

"I feel like...I'm drowning..."

_"Pat..."_

"I'm...in a pit and I can't breathe. I can't breathe."

"Patrick, man..."

"I CAN'T BREATHE, Winston!"

Suddenly, like a flash of lightening - the panic hits.

_I need my arms to be free._

_I NEED my arms to be free._

Fear, injected.

"GET it OFF. Winston...get it off!"

I can't...stop it. I am...

**Oh God.**

_"SHUSSSSSH, heyheyhey...Pat. _PATRICK!"

Winston snaps his fingers, shakes my shoulders. "Calm down, man! Here..._here_..."

And then suddenly Winston is undoing the straps in the midst of my panicking. He gives me a warning look before he unclasps the last bit of cloth from its bindings.

"Just for awhile, hear? And you don't go tellin' no one, now. But if you do_ anything_ to hurt yourself... this is the last time...you got it,man? Patrick?"

I nod. I nod hurriedly.

_**Yesyesyesyes.**_

Then my arms are free, and I want to cry with relief.

My hands shoot out like plant stalks reaching for the sun.

* * *

><p>And my skin needs something.<p>

Something to connect with. Something real.

_I need to hold onto him._

_Or onto Lisbon._

_To something. Anything. **Anyone. Anyone good.**_

"Got you, man. I got you," the black man says mildly. I'm not really listening now, because the panic is ebbing away. I'm not really listening to his words. But I can feel the truth in what he's saying. I can feel that_ he has me_, even though I'm the one doing all the grasping.

* * *

><p><em>"Gonna be okay. Got you, hear?"<em>

It sounds like something a mom or dad should do for their little boy. When you're little and scared. Or hurt.

I don't think I ever had a mom or dad ever do that for me, though.

**_I think that's why I broke apart into a hundred million pieces. _**

* * *

><p>My face is wet.<p>

_Am I crying?_

And Winston's still holding me.

"Just...look here...Teresa is coming today. She told me to tell you that she's coming with...Cho? You know a "Cho", bud?"

I try to restrain my barking-mad crazy laughter. Suddenly something pink and hyper perks up in my heart at the thought of CHO visiting; it makes me yearn for them.

Because none of the others have ever visited...

Only Lisbon.

And if Cho is coming, maybe that means there is good news.

Maybe they've found out that I'm crazy, but not a killer.

* * *

><p>Lisbon said that she didn't think I had killed them. No one. Not the women. Not my wife. Not my daughter.<p>

That it didn't fit.

_"You're a good person, Jane. I believe that. And this DNA evidence is...it's close, but it's...not 100%..."_

At first, they thought it had degraded. Compromised evidence.

But Lisbon believes in me.

_"I believe you have problems. But I know you are good, that your heart is good."_

**So maybe it's good news.**

* * *

><p>"She says that she has something...possibly helpful to tell you. And you don't want to get her all upset now, do you Pat?"<p>

"I told her...I told her not to come. I told her that I'm wrong. I said. I _said_. I'm wrong."

I feel worse when I turn her away, though. Because when I took my wife and daughter for granted, someone slaughtered them. If I take people for granted, bad things happen.

* * *

><p><em>A nurse - not Winston - came in and yelled at me to "settle down!" <em>

_But I couldn't. _

_"Settle DOWN!" - like I was doing it on purpose._

_And then he dosed me up on so much Haldol that I slept through the next day._

_When I realized that I had, I didn't want to eat or drink or move. Not for the entire day._

**_Because I missed Lisbon's visit._**

**So I punished myself.**

With my teeth.

Retribution:

**_ret·ri·bu·tion_/ˌretrəˈbyo͞oSHən/**

**Noun: "Punishment that is considered to be morally right and fully deserved."**

* * *

><p>"Lisbon believes in God," I offer, when Winston makes like he's going to get up and leave.<p>

_I don't want him to leave..._

Winston pats my head. "So do I, Pat."

"But...if she's right, then God made me broken. So I don't believe in God, because if I do...then I _hate_ God. If God exists, I hate him. I HATE him. He killed my wife. _He killed my baby_."

Now I _know_ that I'm crying; I can hear the cries catching up in my throat. Sticking to my voice box like flies feeding on corpses. Buzzing noises, like the whine of an engine. High pitched.

I close my mouth, bite down on my lips, and will the pressure to die down. The effort makes my whole body shake.

* * *

><p>Winston is murmuring something to me. Maybe it's sensical. Maybe it's nonsense.<p>

_Probably nonsense._

But I feel...better.

"Do you have a little girl, or a little boy, Wins'on?"

The Haldol is making me sloppy. I can't speak properly. My mouth is gummy on the stuff.

"Hmm?," he asks, almost as drowsily now.

I know Winston has a child. I heard him talking to another nurse about his kid the other day, when I was in the 'break room.' Too high to really pay attention to the TV show, anyway.

"I...," he seems to hesitate. Just for a moment.

I can hear something akin to guilt in his voice.

**_It's not his fault my little girl is dead..._**

"Do'an w'ry. You're not rubbing it in. I asked firs'"

More hesitation, and then, gently: "I have a little boy. His name is Jordan. He just turned 5."

"Your little boy must feel so safe," I whisper.

_It's a secret I shouldn't ever talk about. _

"I hope so. I think he does. It's wrong when little kids don't feel safe."

_When I was little..._

* * *

><p>It's a secret I shouldn't ever talk about, so I whisper.<p>

"Your little boy must be so happy."

Winston looks pained. Winston looks like my words have just tangled up his guts in a knotted cord.

"Well, thank you, Patrick. You've made my day, hear?"

I smile, because right now...I feel less pain.

Distantly, some part of myself knows that this is because of drugs. And I hate the fact that I only feel better because of drugs.

"I'm going to let you rest now, ok? And I'll be back at 11 for an early lunch and then I'll take you onto Dr. Sattler's for your session."

_I am so fucking screwed in the head that I need someone to feed me._

Winston helps me to me bed. He lifts me easily.

I'm 131 lbs as of this morning. I was 165 lbs when I first entered the hospital 56 days ago.

_Lisbon is freaking out._

_I don't know why. _

_I am nowhere close to dying.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>_WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON_<strong>

* * *

><p><em>There's an ugly red-black stain covering up bits of my mind.<em>

**_Like an old fancy carpet covering up blood stains on wood flooring._**

* * *

><p>Lisbon looks like HOPE and PAIN all rolled into one.<p>

She thinks this will work. She is praying this will work. On me.

I keep my mouth shut, and cross my arms across my chest. I am very cold, and so Winston gives me a robe, and brings me slippers. Both without my asking.

"Is Cho here?," I ask Lisbon, almost on mute. If the answer is _"no,"_ I don't know what I'll feel. Or if I'll feel anything at all. The numbness is exceedingly strong lately.

I see Lisbon's throat swallow harshly, before she nods.

"He's in the office, waiting for us."

The office. The therapy office. Where they are going to crack open my head like a nut, and take a long look around inside. I guess Cho is offering up his body guard services.

"I...I...," I don't even know what I want to ask. "Did he want to come? Or did you make him come?," I whisper, finally, and Lisbon looks like I've slapped her.

"Jane," she gets out. It seems to take a remarkable amount of energy. "We're going to figure out what's going on. If we can go back far enough, that'll help. I suspect...that will tell us a lot."

And then she's holding me next to her, and I can't stop the tremors from rippling through my chest, ushering out all the air from my lungs in a painful wave.

* * *

><p>The therapy room smells like pine trees.<p>

_Like forests, and camping, and being small, and being in the woods, running away, running after my mommy's car. And crying. _

* * *

><p><em>I was tiny too. Once.<em>

* * *

><p>4, 3, 2...<strong>1...<strong>

The doctor is counting backwards. I'm supposed to listen and let myself relax.

* * *

><p>Lisbon is holding my hand. Her thumb is flowing over my palm. I feel a tickle of apprehension in my belly.<p>

I feel her stroke my hand, and will the apprehension to go away.

**_Lisbon's here._**

* * *

><p><strong>Lisbon's here.<strong>

**_Lisbon's here._**

And then she's fading away. I can only hear the doctor's voice. I don't know if they've done it.

If they have hypnotized me.

**"The first time one of the others came out Patrick...can you tell me more about that day?"**

**Am I there?**

**Did they do it?**

**But I'm scared.**

**And when Dr. Sattler repeats the question, I go into the tub, can smell the foam, feel the water. **

**It doesn't feel good.**

* * *

><p><strong><em> I am scared.<em>**

**_I am in a bathtub. _**

_**I am three, and I am in the bathtub. I'm crying.**_

* * *

><p><em>I am white and blue. Am I a ghost?<em>

_Maybe they killed me._

_Maybe they were too rough with Patrick._

* * *

><p><em>"You're my brave little soldier, Wolfy. Helping mommy, aren't you, my good boy?"<em>

**_I am Wolfy. _**

_I come when the Men come for Patrick._

_Patrick needs me, so I am here now. _

* * *

><p><em>I am Wolfy, and I am always watching.<em>

_Mommy is washing Patrick's chest with the wash cloth. With the soap that smells like fruit. With the extra warm water, because Patrick and Wolfy were such good boys today._

_Mommy is even using the special soap._

_The Strawberry soap._

_It means no more Men until next week._

_It means Clean._

_Patrick likes the smell._

* * *

><p><em>"Helping mommy get her medicine. My good little wolf. I'll make this up to you, Wolfy."<em>

_Patrick tries to speak to his mommy, but I won't let him._

_Patrick enters our mouth and growls at me._

_'Go away, Patrick,' I tell him. So quietly mommy can't hear.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>"I would like to hear more about the first time Wolfy came into Patrick and sent Patrick somewhere else. Can you go back to that day, Patrick?..."<strong>

Lisbon's hand has stopped moving.

She clasps my bandaged hand with both of her own. Very carefully.

**"How old were you when Wolfy first came out?"**

* * *

><p><em>The men, in the bed. <em>

_I can see myself in the mirror in the bedroom._

_I can watch them as they cover me up in a blanket of skin._

_I am three and then later, I am four._

_And they are so big.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>I can watch myself, and the men. <em>

_All in the mirror._

_John-John is in his crib._

_He makes noises like a lamb in his crib._

_Bahbahbah._

_He's crying._

_"Pat-Pat!"_

_He's scared, too._

* * *

><p><em>His crying makes me sad.<em>

_His crying is like red lightening bolts in my ears._

_It hurts._

* * *

><p><em>John won't stop crying.<em>

_The men get angry at John-John and scream at him._

_He's just a baby._

_He doesn't know how to be a little mouse._

_"Shut up!" the men shout._

_I am getting scared, too._

_I can hear my friend, in my head._

_He tells me he'll keep me safe. _

_He will come into my body and I'll go to sleep. _

_He tells me that he is strong._

_Because he is a wolf. _

* * *

><p><em>Patrick knows to be very quiet now.<em>

_Little RED mouse._

_No peep._

_Quiet, quiet._

**_No peep._**

* * *

><p><em>'Shuuush. Hide in the holes. Hide in the holes!,' I tell Patrick.<em>

_Like Despereaux._

_The mind-cupboard._

_'Hide like Despereaux!'_

_All alone then - when Patrick goes to sleep, and sometimes that's too much._

_Even for me, and I'm a wolf._

_I don't know how Patrick would have made it by himself, without me._

_He's just a boy. _

_But I'm tired too. _

* * *

><p><em>So then Elfie comes along.<em>

* * *

><p><em>"Hi Patrick, I'm Elfie!"<em>

_Patrick isn't so scared._

_Elfie is bigger than us both. _

_She wears an orange hat._

_Her ears are pointy. _

_She makes Patrick laugh._

_She wants to be Patrick's best friend._

_She comes when he is scared the very most._

_When Wolfy can't protect him._

_When even I can't make him better._

_Elfie is third,_

_Wolfy is second._

_But I am Red,_

_and_

**_Red came first.  
><em>**

* * *

><p><em>Patrick is zero.<em>

_Patrick came from nothing._

_Nothing or a star._

_A nothing and then he was here, on EARTH and he was crying._

_Maybe that's why the men don't stop hurting Patrick when he cries._

_He's from nothing._

_And they can't hear a nothing._

* * *

><p><strong>"I want to speak with just Patrick, now. How old is John-John when the men first come for you, Patrick?"<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Baby.<em>

_Little baby._

_Baby brother._

_Mommy's tummy all round._

_Patrick is more than one._

_Patrick is not yet two._

_Patrick touches mommy's belly._

_Baby John-John moves in mommy._

_I whisper, "HI John-John! I am your brother. I'm PATRICK."_

_Mommy laughs. Asks Patrick: "Did you feel Johnathan, Patty?"_

_John-A-TH-AN_

_Long name._

_Patrick is not yet two._

_Patrick is excited. Wants to see JOHN-JOHN.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>"John-John moved! I felted him with my hand! He said hi to me, Mommy!"<em>

_"You *felt* him," Mommy laughs. "Not 'felted' him, my silly boy."_

_She gives me a big smile._

_Mommy loves Patrick._

* * *

><p><em>Just me.<em>

_Patrick._

_Patrick and John-John._

_Inside Mommy._

_He's here and he's not here._

* * *

><p><em>Then John-John is born.<em>

_He is pinky. Like a Pig._

_He also makes noises._

_Patrick is two now._

_Patrick is a big boy._

_"He looks like a PIGGY!"_

_Mommy frowns._

_"He looks like you did, Patrick. When you were a baby. Just the exact same."_

_Patrick frowns._

_John-John is pinky._

_He looks like a pig._

_He eats and makes noises like a pig._

* * *

><p><em>John-John has tiny tiny teeth. Chicklet teeth. Pink gums. Curly yellow hair.<em>

_Like Patrick's._

_Just the exact same._

_Patrick looks at a photo._

_In the photo is Baby Patrick._

_Baby Patrick has gone somewhere._

_I'm not sure where._

_Maybe dead._

_But maybe inside Big Me with Red, now._

_Or maybe Baby Patrick died?_

_When the men came?_

* * *

><p><em>"John-John looks like me, Mommy!"<em>

_Patrick is not quite three._

_Patrick loves that John-John looks like him._

_No more Piggy._

* * *

><p><em>Wolfy doesn't want me to come out.<em>

_I don't know what to do._

_Wolfy says to go into a room._

_A room inside my head._

_Wolfy says to stay there._

_Red says so softly that only I can hear, not Wolfy:_

_'I'll TakE cARe of John, and Wolfy too.'_

_Wolfy doesn't know about Red yet._

* * *

><p><em>Red always comes out to take care of John.<em>

_Whenever the men come._

_Red hides John away._

_Just like Wolfy hides Patrick away._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Red comes out of Patrick when John is scared.<em>**

_Red makes John-John smile._

_Red is a better brother to John than Patrick._

_So John loves Red more._

_"Red and John!," John-John says to Patrick, and hugs Us. "Red 'n John."_

_Red and John are brothers._

_John barely knows Patrick._

_Patrick is very still and tired and is in the mind-room too much._

* * *

><p><em>Wolfy sends Patrick AWAY NOW. <em>

* * *

><p><strong>"Can we talk to Wolfy?"<strong>

* * *

><p><em>I am Wolfy, and I help Patrick.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>"How do you help Patrick, Wolfy?"<strong>

* * *

><p><em>I say: 'Go away, go away Patrick. Sit in the cupboard and close your eyes.'<em>

_And he does._

_And I come into his eye holes._

_Bright, bright, flash, it hurts to come in at first._

_For me._

_But no pain for Patrick._

* * *

><p><em>Patrick is in the cupboard-mind now, and he's covering up his eyes when the men touch Body.<em>

_Elfie is hiding in the cupboard-mind with Patrick, too._

_Trying to make Patrick laugh._

_Trying to keep Patrick from coming back too soon._

_Red hisses in Patrick's stomach if the men even look at John-John._

* * *

><p><em>Deep down the men are moving over Body.<em>

_But Patrick is gone._

_He's gone away._

_Into a black sky._

_No sun, no moon._

_A flash of pain for Body._

_A star of pain._

_Like being born._

_Movement gets fast._

_The men roll over Patrick like water._

_I am dizzy and __Body hurts._

_But Patrick feels nothing at all._

* * *

><p><em>I can feel Patrick try to come back when he hears John-John cry.<em>

_The crying is Bright Red._

_Red red RED._

_"John-John," Patrick is crying too. "Don't cry. I'm ok. I'm ok."_

_The men are gone now._

_Wolfy is gone now._

_Elfie is setting up the tea set in the mind-cupboard._

* * *

><p><em>Her voice is like a bell.<em>

_She puts out tea sets for herself, Patrick, and John-John._

_But John-John doesn't see._

_"Pattttt. Bluud!," John is warbling._

_John-John is in the crib. His eyes are round._

_His eyes are round marbles._

_He points at Patrick._

_Blood._

_All over Patrick's legs._

_John-John's scared._

* * *

><p><em>John-John is banging on the bars.<em>

_An duck toy with a bell. _

_Banging and banging, and the Man holding onto Patrick shouts at the door:_

_"Shut that baby up, Delores!"_

_Patrick's mommy comes into the room._

_She picks up John-John and leaves._

_She doesn't even look at Patrick._

_She doesn't look at Body which is bleeding on the sheets._

_She looks away._

_Walks out of the room with John-John._

_Patrick has his hands over his eyes and over his ears and he screams in the mind-cupboard._

* * *

><p><em>Patrick is almost four.<em>

_He knows he's supposed to be quiet._

_No noise__._

* * *

><p><em>Elfie puts on a funny hat and tries to make Patrick laugh.<em>

_"Would you like tea?"_

_She serves Patrick tea._

_"Tea for Prince Patrick!," she chitters._

_Red goes back down into Patrick's stomach._

_Because John-John is safe now._

_Wolfy stays out in Body and takes all the pain.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>John-John is crying from the other room.<em>

_"Pahhhht-pat."_

_He's crying and crying and crying._

* * *

><p><em>Red wakes up.<em>

_There is blood all over the sheets._

_Body is bleeding._

_So much red._

_Even Elfie is scared._

_She squeaks and chitters._

_Despereaux runs into the mind-cupboard._

_"Run, Patrick, Run!," he whimpers._

* * *

><p><em>Patrick is trying to come back.<em>

_He's so scared._

_He can't stay inside the mind-cupboard much longer._

_Hurts__._

_Patrick hurts._

_Everywhere under the pajamas._

* * *

><p><em>Red watches from the side.<em>

_He will come out if John-John gets too upset._

_Or if the man goes near John-John._

_But Patrick's body is here, so the baby should be safe._

_The men don't need a baby w__hen they have Us._

* * *

><p><em>Patrick wants his Mommy.<em>

_He even wants John-John._

_He's scared._

_I growl at him to stay down._

_The new man laughs._

_Calls Patrick a "little freak."_

_A "crazy little freak."_

_The new man is stupid._

_He's not even talking to Patrick._

_I growl again._

_Louder._

_The man laughs__._

_So I howl._

_"Whatever, boy."_

_The Man shakes his head, gets up, and puts on his pants._

_"Good boy," he says and rubs his hands through Patrick's hair._

_The man looks happy._

_Patrick is sticky._

* * *

><p><em>"What did I say? Nothing that makes him bleed, Randy. No blood on my kid, I said!"<em>

_Patrick's mommy says no blood. It's a rule._

_But Patrick came back into Body and there was blood._

_So Red came and took away the fear._

_And picked up baby John and rocked John on Body's lap._

_"No cry, no cry John-John. Red is here."_

_Red smiles at John-John._

_"Red will keep you safe__. Red loves John."_

_John John can't talk well yet._

_"Re...ddd? Want Pat-Pat! Pat-rick?"_

_Red always comes out when the men come close to Baby._

_"Pat Pat?," John-John is frowning. _**_'Where Pat-rick Go?'_**

* * *

><p><strong><em>John is too little to understand.<em>**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** this is obviously going to need a part 3. XD (I always seem to get myself trapped in the creation of WIP's. ;) Third part will have definite resolution for Jane. _Poor Jane._ _As if I hadn't punished him enough in every other story I've ever written, as it is..._


	3. Chapter 3

**Title - House of Cards - Part 3/4**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: "**Jane bites his lip, and a wisp of salivia and red plumes out against his chin when he breathes harshly, a second later. He then lets his hand drop to furl up against his chest, as if he's creating a little cup underneath his heart. _A little cup in which to catch something in..._"_/ _Jisbon-centric

**A/N:** I wanted to get this completed (along with a chapter for _Little Stars_) before November 1st...BEFORE NaNoWriMo rolled around, as I know that NaNoWriMo and marathon training are going to quickly zap any free time that I have ;) (Obviously THAT didn't work out as planned. The last little while has been busy with new rescue animals being adopted and also preparations for my annual Samhain party, of course). But I thank you all for your patience. :)

And yes...there is one more part coming. :)

* * *

><p><strong>LISBON'S POV<strong>

* * *

><p>Cho's voice is the next voice that I hear.<p>

Not Jane's. Not _Patrick's._

Not Dr. Sattler's.

Cho's.

Brisk, blunt Cho.

Cho...who rarely says more than a sentence at a time, and only then when prodded.

_It's almost surreal._

"Is he coming out of it?"

The question is directed to Dr. Sattler, of course.

The doctor hedges for a moment, then holds up a hand for us to be absolutely silent. That's not going to be a problem for me.

_Not right now._

"Patrick?," the doctor tests, softly.

No verbal answer, though I see a slight ripple of a flinch roll through Jane's shoulders when his name is uttered.

"I think he's coming out of it," Dr. Sattler whispers to the room, entire. It is a whisper that seems about as loud as a clap of thunder. As loud as the splitting open of a midnight purple sky.

But instead of thunder and lightening, what's been revealed in this room isn't white and bright. It's red and black and full of heaviness. Full of something so much worse than death.

Something almost unnameable, it's that revolting.

Something that you know intellectually could have always happened to a friend. Something that you know actually happens far more often in this world than might be believed - but which never stops generating a bone aching pain whenever you learn it has happened to a person that you know...

...and _love_.

Patrick's breaths are rapid and strained now; he's physically turned away from us in his chair. His hands are clenched into chalky fists, the knuckles prominent not only from his drastic weight loss but also from the force of his clenching. His teeth are solidified together, and I can see that his head is trembling. Actually - to be accurate - his whole body is trembling.

"Patrick?," the doctor tries again, louder.

And then Jane's eyes slowly open. Not all the way. Just a crack.

"Patrick... I know you must be feeling incredibly overwhelmed right now, but I need to perform a brief exam. Is that alright?"

Jane makes a deep throated noise on this second attempt to rouse him. A noise which is raw and pained, though quickly controlled and extinguished not unlike the dousing of flames with water.

Then suddenly - all too suddenly - the trembling starts to dissipate and the clenched hands, tense jaw and spinal rigidity ease up. However, rather than feel soothed by the apparent relaxation of his body, I can only sense that something equally troubling is clamouring up into the conciousness of his mind.

I have to bat away an impulse to reach for him and shake him and _demand he stay here._

Stay here now. In the present. _I have to physically restrain myself._

Or else, I'm going to be shaking him. Demanding him not to give in. Because the truth is...I'm scared of them. Those...others.

Those others that are somehow part of him and yet not him... _all at once. _Those others that I do not know at all, even if Jane knows and feels them intimately. Even though he has relied on them during his greatest horrors to simply survive. And I'm terrified what reliving such trauma is going to do to him now, as it was living through that horror that caused the fracture of Jane's mind.

It was that perverse abuse that splintered his being into shards...

"Jane...," I beg, "Patrick...please...stay present. I'm right here."

I do not care that Cho is watching. I do not care **_who_** is witnessing my pleading.

What I am begging for is so vital - so necessary - that any emotional issues of my own are quickly being shafted to the lower rungs of my mind.

"Please Jane...don't go away. We can help you," I beg, my voice a low soft rumble in my throat, "but only if you stay. You're strong...you're so strong...and you'll have me to help you. You don't need them anymore."

"Agent Lisbon...," Dr. Sattler warns.

But I don't feel out of line for insisting that he's strong. Jane needs to know that much. And he needs to know that_ someone _will always be there for him_. _

_He needs to know that I will never...abandon him._

"Jane, please...open your eyes."

And then his blue-green eyes open up completely and peer straight through my soul.

* * *

><p>I don't recognize the look in his gaze.<p>

I don't recognize that wildness inside. That wild hungry look, not unlike a bear cub that has been walking around in dizzy starvation for days, and is now resigning himself to hopeless realization: **_he's going to starve. _**There isn't _going_ to be a next meal. _This is it. This is the end._

It's a horrid enough look when caught up in the gaze of an adult...

_But when it is mingled in with that innocent gaze of a child?_

And Jane's eyes are full of that childlike hue right now. An unconstrained vulnerability. So much so that I'm appreciative of the genuine honesty - drawn to it in its rarity of expression, even if the motivation for the emotions themselves is one rooted in trauma.

A moment later I feel ashamed of myself. Because _Jane looks starved_. Starved of something so basic that the vulnerability I see in his eyes isn't one that was ever freely given.

It's not an open, honest trust.

It's there by base necessity.

It's there because someone victimized him so completely as a little child that he cannot even cope with the memories anymore Nor does he have the energy to hide, or the energy to stave off his fear.

What I'm seeing is a deadly resignation. The same resignation that you'd see in a starving bear or a dying bird. That's the look in his eyes, now: that broken-bird look. _A little creature... caught in a storm, flung up against a window. Neck cracked, **askew.**_

You've probably seen an animal in that state before. Body seizing, but brain watching with awful glassy eyes as death comes right up to the perimeter of mortality. Death: this black footed eager _thing - _crouching down and lapping at the edge of life.

That's how it must have felt to Jane... to live through what he did. To relent to the larger, prying hands of an abuser. Of multiple abusers. Countless faces, hands, bodies.

_Yes._

_Those experiences must have felt incredibly similar to resigning oneself to death._

* * *

><p>"Jane...," I repeat, feeling hollow. No warmth, no cold. Just a void in my stomach, where a coffee and a muffin and <em>heat<em> and_ feeling_ should be. Maybe even ulcer pain, which is normally abhored but would at least be grounding and familiar right now. Because I'd take almost anything over this _nothingness._ Anything over this _emptiness._

"Patrick," I rasp.

Those wild eyes flicker back and forth, and then his eyes crease, close, and open again with a different look to them. Suddenly those eyes are _HIS_ eyes. Fully and completely and I feel my relief surge forwards torrentially.

"Lisbon?," Jane's voice sounds both so tentative and so equally terrified.

"Yes, sweetheart," I speak automatically, and can't even summon a blush at the words. Words that hint at a relationship that feels so much greater than platonic, and so much deeper than professional...even though we've never progressed beyond the most basic of hugs and the most chaste of holds.

"Yes, I'm here, Jane," I assert a little more loudly when he exhales. "Cho's here too."

Jane glances up at Cho, as if now realizing - for the very first time - that the Asian man is also present. I hear Cho mutter in a very un-Cho-like voice - soft and gentle, "_Hey_ Jane..."

"I'm cold," Jane implores us for _something_, eyes flickering away from Cho, and back to me; a second later his half opened eyes slowly transgress back to fully shut.

"Yes, I know. You're shaking, Jane," and then I'm by his side, my hand coming up to grap his own as Cho bites back a muted,_ "Careful boss." _

_careful bosssss. _Soft like the wind against the back of my skull.

_Careful?_

_Of what exactly?_

_Of offering the torturted man before me the smallest bit of comfort?_

But I know that's not what Cho means at all... I know that Cho saw what came out of Jane not ten minutes previously. Or -_ perhaps more precisely_ - what came **into** him as the case may be. I know Cho felt it. That...**it. **That creature, that collective creature of many faces that perches in Jane's skull and looks through Jane's eyes and speaks through Jane's mouth.

And I know that Cho is scared of it. Of IT, the total conglomeration of those minds. The unnamed ones. The potentially _aggressive_ ones. The ones with the feral wildness in their gaze.

The ones that make Jane's eyes flash colours other than blue or green.

* * *

><p>"I can't even begin to know what you must be feeling right now...," I whisper to Jane, before moving closer. Before even <em>attempting<em> to touch him.

"But I know that you are strong, and that you can stay here...and I will stay here with you. Cho will stay here with you. You don't need to ask us to stay. We will stay right here with you for as long as you need us to... alright, Patrick?"

My hand is still hovering over his own, and now dips down for a feather-light touch. I'm shocked by how...cold he is. I know he said he was cold, but there's absolutely no heat emanating from his body and it's concerning.

"I'm going to take your hand now...only your hand...is that alright?," I say, my eyes trained onto Jane's face. If I get the slightest flicker of fear, I will be retracting before he can even open his mouth. "Is that okay?," I ask again, a little more loudly this time when he makes no motion of response._ "Hmmm?"_

He makes a furtive noise of repression then, but nods. _'Mmm hmm',_ I hear. '_Okay'_, he whispers shakily.

"Okay then," I drop back down and let my hand slowly flow over to his own. "He feels like ice," I say to Jane's doctor, while the man nods grimly - his eyes showing a patient awareness.

"Lisbon...I'm cold," Jane breathes out - roused by my words, no doubt - before licking his lips. They're so dry that deep ridging and slight bleeding have created multiple little ruddy brown lines of blood across the flesh.

_Perhaps he's even bitten into them..._

_...just like he did with his arm._

_Because they looked so wounded, those lips._ As if even the act of speaking about such a wretched past has physically brought him harm. As if his flesh split open of its own accord. Split open in anguish and overwhelm. Split open in a rousing, bloody protest to silence the words themselves from even being _uttered_.

"I don't feel...I don't _feel good_," Jane pants suddenly, his eyes widening into pupil dilated circles, ripe with something skirting full blown panic. "I don't feel _real, Lisbon..._"

"Of course _**you** are real_," I insist in basic consolation, "And _**I** am real_," I breathe back to him, and only to him: "Here, squeeze my hand Jane. You squeeze, and I will squeeze back. You just focus on that. Nothing else. Just that, and my voice, alright?"

I have no idea if any of this is _right._

_If I'm doing any of this properly..._

_I'm not trained to deal with this degree of suffering._

_I'm trained to deal with criminals. _

_I'm not used to really dealing with victims._

_Not ones who have survived..._

I can only hope that Jane will be soothed by something warm and alive, but lacking in predatory motive. That it will ground Jane far more than a bland piece of furniture, one not only impersonal but also as cold as a corpse.

"Can you feel my hand?," I ask him carefully. It sounds like a stupid question, I know. But to one who doesn't feel real_...it's also a vital question._

_I need to know how much Jane's processing right now._

_To what degree he's able to connect with anyone or anything outside of himself._

I let my thumb stroke the back of his hand in a slow, even tempo.

"Feel that?"

He nods, but even his nod is full of hesitation.

"That means I'm here, Patrick. And I'm not going anywhere. Alright?"

He swallows, but nods again, and I can sense in the force of his grasp just how difficult it must have been for him to even loosen his grip on the upholstery in the first place.

"Lisbon...I _want_...," and I doubt he has any clue what he wants right now.

"Hmmm?," I ask him, "what would you like, Jane?"

Yet I slowly extricate his other hand, which he releases with a little less reluctance this time.

_Good. _

_Progress._

"I want to go back to my room...," he cries. "I'm cold."

When I have both of his hands I move around to his center and then stand up a few inches from his line of sight. "I know you are cold...but can you open your eyes now, Patrick? Just a little bit?"

He bites back a sob, obliges, and I push away fear at the glassiness I see there.

"Will he...remember everything?," Cho whisper-talks to the doctor and for once I can easily hear how his facade of indifferent bluntness has cracked away to reveal his oft-hidden empathy.

"Most likely...," the doctor finally states.

Cho looks...haunted. His eyes are heavy with grief.

* * *

><p>"Patrick? I need to conduct a quick exam," Dr. Sattler speaks, while Jane turns to shift in his chair before bringing his face and body to turn away from us again. The action pains me but I'm not going to <em>force<em> him to look at us. At me.

I'm not going to force him to do _anything_ ever again.

* * *

><p><strong><em>A baby, really.<em>**

**_A baby._**

**_He was little more than a baby..._**

* * *

><p>Jane's face is the colour of limestone. He looks like a whitened-out version of a photographic print. Actually, aside from the ridges of dried blood the tattered rose of his torn lips, even his mouth is a muted-out white.<p>

I hear Dr. Sattler's pen light click on and then the older man is suddenly there, besides us. Crouched down low besides Jane's chair. I move slightly but do not remove my grasp on Jane's hand.

"Can you look at me, Patrick?," the doctor begins, excruiatingly slowly - as if Jane is still holding onto his 4 year old faculties.

Jane's eyes slowly ease open once more, but he doesn't look at the doctor. He simply proceeds to stare at the ivy stencil work that skirts the midsection of the wall.

His eyes are dull.

"Did you do that with the stencils? Or did you hire a designer to do that?," Jane questions, bringing his less battered arm away from my hold and across his chest, protectively.

"I didn't ask you to evaluate the wall or the decorations, Patrick," and the doctors voice sounds almost amused. Not quite, but _almost_. I take the very ridiculous question itself as a portent of something...hopeful.

Something so classically _Patrick Jane_ that I try to convince myself that he'll be okay. That in the end...he'll be okay.

"I need to check your dilation time to test for shock. Nothing invasive. Just a little light...but I need for you to stop studying the ivy stencilling and look at me now, Patrick," and I hear a pen light click ON with a ZWIPP. Metal against metal, and a jet of white light spills forth from the small device and flirts over Jane's face.

Jane winces when the light hits his pupils and he closes his eyes reflexively.

"It won't take long and then you can go back to your room," the doctor states kindly. "Please just look above the light, Patrick. Not directly into it. Just above it."

Jane slowly lets his gaze flitter back over to the light source.

"It hurts," he says, a moment later. I can see his eyes are watering reflexively. "Makes me dizzy."

His voice sounds almost ashamed.

"Mmm?," Sattler queries, "it hurts your eyes? It hurts your eyes?"

"It hurts, in my head. My head hurts so much," and then a sob breaks through, craggy and ragged, as if he's experienced this pain 1,000 times already and can't live through it again.

The doctor nods, knowingly. "The light makes it worse, or your head just hurts, regardless?"

Jane's grasp on my hand increases to something almost vice-like tight.

"Just...my head. Not the light. _Just my head_. Because...they're here. Right here. RIGHT HERE."

And then one hand quickly departs from my own, and is brought up in a rapid onslaught against his eye socket.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!," Jane shrieks, and the shrillness of his plea is accentuated by our utter stillness in shocked response. Quickly, intensely, _FOPT!..._Jane hits his head once more.

The doctor is able to grab Jane's arm on the third upswing.

"_No no no_, Patrick. We aren't going to let you hurt yourself. If you try to hurt yourself again, I will have to sedate you. Do you understand?"

Jane bites his lip, and a wisp of salivia and red plumes out against his chin when he breathes harshly a second later. He then lets his hand drop to furl up against his chest, as if he's creating a little cup underneath his heart.

_A little cup in which to catch something in..._

When he speaks again, his voice sounds wretchedly sad.

"Please don't let them come," he pants, more to me than anyone else. I feel something jolt against my ribcage.

"Memories? Don't let the memories come?," Sattler attempts to clarify, his voice nothing but clinical.

Jane look very directedly ahead for a matter of seconds, totally mute, and I feel some of the numb shock leave my body when his eyes slowly start to fill with tears.

"Please don't let them come, Lisbon," he pleads, "I _don't_...I can't be like this. I'm not crazy. I'm _not__!" _His voice sounds as if he's swallowed glass, and then the shaking gets more pronouned.

As if a hare is leaping about in his muscles, causing them to twitch. It looks highly unsual, but particularly so for Jane... who can typically control displays of his physiology with grand-master precision.

"Please make them leave me alone," Jane chokes out a second time when no one offers up a rapid assurance.

"Let me check your blood pressure, Patrick, and I will see what I can do," the doctor tries, face furrowed. "There are things we can try. It might take awhile, I won't deny that... but people have gotten through these states. People have been made whole again. Do you understand that, Patrick?"

Jane doesn't respond. Not a nod, not a sound.

"We'll let you get heated up soon as possible, and then you can go back to bed in another few minutes. That's what you want, isn't it?," Dr. Sattler asks, dangling the suggestion in front of my friend as if Jane is a feline, and the offer is a kind of cat nip.

"I'm cold," Jane reiterates for what must be the fourth or fifth time now. And he truly does look icy, even shuddering as the doctor works a cuff onto his arm.

"I know," Sattler affirms sadly before he squeezes the device and the blood pressure cuff slowly stiffens up around Patrick's arm. "Some of that's shock, but most of that's weight loss. So that's another reason you have to eat more. You don't like being this cold all the time, do you?"

I find the question almost patronizing, especially for a man of Jane's brilliance.

"Lisbon... I'm cold," my friend repeats like a child, and I feel something tug apart in my guts.

I've had enough of his begging for any offering of heat; I take off my cardigan and wrap it around his shoulders before his doctor can say anything.

_Because I know what it's like to be cold._

_Absolutely freezing._

_I know what it's like because at 15..._

_... my drunken father managed to miss so much work..._

_... that our light and electric were both shut off._

_For the better part of a month... _

_In Chicago._

_In Chicago, in the winter._

I know what it's like to feel so icy inside that you want to cry.

It's a type of pain, to be so cold inside.

* * *

><p>When I move to button the sweater around his neck, I feel his swallow. My fingers lightly skitter over his throat and I note how scratchy his skin feels with facial hair that needs to be removed.<p>

The messiness of Jane's countenance further highlights his state of mental deterioration because the man is nothing if not fastitidious...

And the only exceptions to that rule would be when he's dealing with depression or...

_**This.** _

_Dealing with this state that is so much fuller _

_and **possessing** _

_than even the worst depression could possibly be..._

"That a little better?," I test - and am rewarded when he muffles out a soft _'mmmm, yes...Thank you.'_

I stroke his cheek with an almost unconstrainable affection and then let my fingertips run around to the base of his skull to stroke the back of his neck, too.

I feel him swallow again, but his breathing slows.

* * *

><p>"It's not much, but it'll help," I attempt to console him. "And maybe when Dr. Sattler is done, we can get you a hot water bottle and some tea. Would you like some tea?"<p>

Jane sniffles. "Bergamot?," he asks with some faint dash of hope that makes me want to grin. For Jane, bergamot tea is so basic a comfort that it would be almost equivalent to most people being given a roll of toilet paper if they needed to use the washroom.

I think he even likened a good cup of bergamot tea to a hug, once.

_A hug._

_A hug in a cup._

_How many times has he said that while I've know him?_

_Ten times?_

_A dozen?_

And I failed to really 'hear' what he was saying at all. I failed, then, to take in and register his obvious striving need for almost a constant stream of emotional comfort.

_Because he never stops drinking tea... _

"Cho," I say a little more firmly now, "can you please go and see if a nurse or orderly has a hot water bottle they can lend to us?"

My second in command responds immediately, happy for a task. Cho is, I deeply believe, part German Shepherd. "Sure thing boss," he states, eager for a role that will take him out of this cold, sad room.

* * *

><p>A few moments later, I hear the hushed read out from Jane's lastest test, and an almost resigned sigh from his doctor.<p>

"76 over 44."

The doctors eyes are sourly focused on Jane's head.

"How bad is that?," I ask, uncertainly. My mom may have been a nurse, but that was a lifetime ago and I was just a little kid. I don't really know what a too low blood pressure would be any longer. All I know is...my blood pressure has never been considered too low.

"It's not _good_," the doctor states dourly before rising. "Especially given his pulse rate, and the slight purple tinge to his nails."

Jane's teeth are clacking around in his skull.

"What would cause that?," I query, before my hold on Jane increases.

"Malnutrition is making it worse, but my biggest concern right now is shock," Sattler says quietly.

"We are going to move you, alright Patrick? Down to Ward A. It's warmer in that part of the hospital, and you'll have a nice, new bed. And Winston will be able to come and check your vitals every hour. You'll even have a TV. How does that sound?"

Jane's mouth is softly testing the sounds out, as if he's a babbling tot.

_'Ward A. Ward A?_,' he asks me, his voice is almost ringing with the words now. The sound of a Christmas bell.

I sense that he gets it. What this really** means.**

_Because Ward A is not where violent criminals are kept..._

And they are not moving Jane to Ward A because of a concern of him being _in shock_.

They are moving Jane to Ward A because of their sick, guilty realization that he is not Red John.

They are moving Jane to Ward A because they get it with an awful, staggering clarity now: that the man they have been treating as a killer and a monster is the most innocent victim of all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title - House of Cards - Part 4/4**

**Author - Kourion **

**Summary: **Jane takes the doll almost reverently - his fingers tapping along the wood toggle buttons of Rupert Bear's coat. Carefully. Entranced. "I saw him, and I thought of you. Must be the outdated, through spiffy outfit. Circa 1890, am I right?"_/ _Jisbon-centric

**A/N:** This may be the fourth part for this ficlet, but essentially I may revisit this story again at a later time. I just didn't want to have another WIP on the go when I already have several. :)

I spent an inordinate amount of time, by the way, fixing all my Canadian spellings into the more "show acceptable" versions. Also- ferreting out ridiculous expressions that somehow have slipped into my speech despite by best attempts for them to have not, eh?

You can thank me by leaving me a quick little REPLY. ;) Any reply (other than an out and out flame) is totally appreciated :)

* * *

><p><em>"Hope is like peace. It is not a gift from God. It is a gift only we can give one another." <em> - Elie Wiesel

* * *

><p><strong>TWO WEEKS LATER<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>LISBON'S POV<strong>

I shoulder my satchel bag and breathe deeply before turning off the ignition.

Today's a big day.

Jane is being given off-clinic privileges, and I am his chosen escort for the endeavor.

So I take a sip of stale coffee, then lock the driver's side door and make my way through to the infinitely less guarded building occupying the residents of Ward A.

When I get to the receptionist desk Wanda waves up at me and gives me a slight smile. In the two weeks since Jane has been transferred, I've been at the clinic a grand total of 13 times.

_Apparently that's a record or something._

"I'll be with you in a minute," Wanda mouths to me while I take a seat in one of the ridiculously hard and uncomfortable plastic chairs that line the entry way.

"_Mmm hmm,_ yeah I understand, Leonard, I truly do. But _I can't_ extend day privileges beyond the eight hour limit. If you want to have the trip extended for Kristy then you need to talk to her _doctor_. Mmm, yes. Yes. No, I'm sorry. No,_ I do get it_, Leonard - it's frustrating to have a time limit. Okay, so you'll call Dr. Reeves? Good. No, I understand, believe me. You have the number? Alright, well we'll be checking in with you in about an hour for Kristy. Yes, okay. Yes_. Yes Leonard. Good bye. _No, I understand._ No, Leonard - it's fine. Alright. _**Bye**."

I try to look inconspicuous as I hear the phone reapplied to the receiver with a hefty click.

"Good afternoon, Teresa. How's your day going?," Wanda turns to me fully now and addresses me in a relaxed tone. Far more relaxed than _I'd be_ if I spent the last ten hours fielding calls from families or patients that simply didn't want to return 'home.' I imagine it would be something of a stress to argue about protocol for 12 hours straight with para-suicidals.

"It could be going better, but from the sounds of it - my day is going a little more easily than yours."

Wanda snorts. "You're probably right about that, honey," before she pauses and then adds, "You know - I think Patrick is ready for you. He came by here after lunch. First time since he was transferred, and he came out for lunch! Looked good, you know? Better, I mean. Face not so gaunt. And I could tell he was excited - so you can probably just go right on in, hon. I'm sure he's already ready to go."

I smile, happy to hear that he's doing better.

"So he ate?," I ask hopefully.

"He brought me his crescent roll - told me he had salad, and couldn't eat anymore. You know, he's a sweet one, that Patrick."

_He is a sweet one.  
><em>

_A sweet, broken one._

"Salad? He had _salad_? _Yeah, right Jane - that's going to pack the pounds right back on._..," I mutter under my breath.

"He's trying, Teresa. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"No, you're right. I just-," sighing, I lift my bag, then wait by the electronic doors until I hear a high pitched _BEEP!_ alerting me as to when I can advance._  
><em>

"Yeah, I get it honey. But he'll make it through this. He has _you_."

I try not to smile at the words - at the warmth they generate in my heart.

**_If he makes it through this, it won't be because of me._**

**_It'll be because he's the strongest person I've ever known._**

"You have a good day, Wanda. Don't take any crap from _anyone_," I say as I pass by, still touched by her words. Their sentiment.

"Will do, Teresa. You can count on it."

I stop, turn. "Oh, and if Patrick comes by here later today buttering you up like I know he's more than capable of doing, tell him _Lisbon_ - as his boss - is ordering him to go eat a peanut butter sandwich right that instant. And if he doesn't eat something substantial, tell him I'll be calling the Goodwill trucks first thing tomorrow morning to come and pick up that ugly couch of his. _HE'LL_ know what I'm talking about. Alright?"

"Alright!," Wanda chuckles as I turn a corner, where I bypass a large reading room.

A few patients linger about in dressing gowns and oversize slippers, but Jane isn't among them.

"Hey Mike!," I chirp to a smaller man with mousey brown hair, and am rewarded with a childlike grin as he temporarily stops working on his 3D puzzle.

"Mmm, _hallo, _Miss Lisbon," Mike says with brittle words, before he scurries back to work on his miniature replica of the London Eye, mumbling to himself,_ "I can't get this right!"_

I stop walking just long enough to take in the puzzle's construction.

"You're doing alright, Mike. Look how far you've gotten already. You've got to be half way done, right? And you know what they say - _slow and steady_..."

He nods, face scrunched up, but then suddenly whispers a _"Bye bye!"_ to me.

He's very amusing that way, Mike. When he's done talking with someone, he'll usher a "bye," and that essentially translates to: _we are done with this conversation. Leave me alone. Now._

A little more polite in execution, perhaps. But not by much. And the behaviors of most of the patients here are such a far cry away from the suave and refined actions of Jane at his most charming-self that, well - it takes all my will power not to burst out laughing every time I walk through this place.

But to be polite, I whisper a _'Bye Mike'_ right back, and continue walking onwards.

I'm not here for Mike, anyway.

* * *

><p>When I get to the residential hallway, I zip up my coat. The air here is almost chilly and the lighting is this area is a whiny green-white due to the use of halogens. Which in turn means that almost everyone traipsing along looks as if they are suffering from jaundice.<p>

* * *

><p>Jane's door is semi-open.<em> Not much.<em> A few inches, perhaps. Not enough that I feel I have the right to waltz right in, and so I listen for noise - either from the television set or from Jane himself.

Faintly, I can hear a theme song. Something achingly familiar. I knock in a succession of five beats followed by three, and quickly here the lowering of the television set a few seconds later.

"Come in!," Jane calls out as best as he can. His throat still sounds incredibly sore. In fact, the damnable man probably has acquired strep throat. I wouldn't be surprised.

He's currently getting over a nasty bout of pneumonia, and today is the first day that he's been allowed any off grounds privileges at all. Even so, he's been allotted a scant three hour maximum, which seriously limits our options. Movies are essentially out, leaving mostly cafes and eateries. But even so - with Jane's sensitive stomach - I'm not about to take him to a buffet. He'd probably wind up vomiting whatever _he did eat_ before we even got half way back to the hospital.

And now he sounds almost mute - his voice strangled and soft. It's been two weeks since he's been transferred, and if anything, his voice continues to sound quieter and more strained each day.

_I don't like it at all._

"Hey Jane - it's me," I add needlessly; when I do finally enter, I can see that he's sitting cross legged on his bed - and making no hurry to get up.

He's clad in red socks, sweat pants without drawstrings, and a short sleeved t-shirt the color of sea foam. While any sight other than the wretched straight jacket and the white pants is refreshing, the clashing of colors leaves something to be desired. Never mind the fact that Jane's right arm - now freshly extricated from bandages - still shows the yellow-green remnants of deep bruising, and a faint line of black where the dissolvable thread hasn't yet fully dissolved.

To think that he bit through his own arm makes me sick - and for a couple of moments I'm paralyzed.

Jane seems to realize the source of my discomfort almost immediately, for he then bends over and searches under his bed. When he returns, he's rapidly putting on a large navy sweater-jacket. It doesn't really look like anything he would have ever owned, so I can't help but hope that maybe Van Pelt has visited him without my awareness.

Certainly Rigsby hasn't dropped by despite my persistent nudgings that he should do just that.

The last time I raised the possibility, the man looked like I had just suggested he donate a couple organs without anesthetic or something - before proceeding to gab on about how he didn't _"think Jane would want to see"_ him.

**_ For the next ten minutes._**

**_Without pause._**

I get it.

_I do._

If I feel queasy with a sort of raw guilt that hasn't yet begun to ease up, I can only imagine Rigsby's anxiety.

* * *

><p>After all, he had been nothing but brutally rough with Jane that day.<p>

On that absolutely wretched day when everything felt like it was crumbling. When it felt as if my heart was breaking. Just the staggering weight of the very possibility that **_it could be so!_**, and Jane's eyes - that wild, strange, disconnected look? That's what had gotten to me the very most.

**I knew he was sick.**

**I didn't know how sick.**

But to even consider him guilty? As a possibility?

If someone had skewered my lungs clean through with forks, well - I don't think the pain could have been worse.

* * *

><p>What Jane had experienced next was indisputable terror. Terror, clear as day was scribbled clear across his features.<p>

And maybe things wouldn't have devolved if he hadn't run.

But he had tried to _flee._

And I think, to Rigsby, in doing so - Jane was admitting to the crimes.

And that's when-

_Rigsby was on him. _

_Throwing him to the floor - _

_-one powerful, muscled arm taking Jane's skull _

_-and bringing it down with such ferocity_

_**that Grace screamed.**  
><em>

That's when Rigsby - gentle-giant Rigsby - had changed into somebody who seemed almost as broken as Jane.

So no, I doubt Rigsby's been by without my knowledge.

Because even I can still hear that horrendous mewling noise that Jane made. That hiccoughed crying - _his face all puffed up from the force of Rigsby's blows_ - and that blond head, all sweaty in panic as the crying died away into the sibilant sound of a hiss, like an animal - as he licked away the blood from his mouth.

And then the hissing died away into nothingness.

Into that god forsaken silence.

And that silence was_ ten times worse_.

**_That emptiness was gutting._**

* * *

><p>"Lisbon?," and the voice sounds just as quiet as in the memory, but lacking in the same acute branding of fear.<p>

"Are you alright?"

_'Are you alright?'_

Words that Patrick Jane would have _never_ uttered in his previous existence. Before - _before all of this_ - he would have simply **known** if I was alright. And if he wasn't 100% positive as to whether I or not I WAS alright, he would have used his mentalism skills to simply goad me into revealing how I was, in fact, doing.

_He would never have asked in a voice full of reproachful hesitancy if I WAS alright._

**_He never would have sounded so confused-_**

**_-and he never would have been so nervous._**

"Hmm? Oh, I'll be fine," I state quickly, not wanting to lie more than I already have. I shake my head as he studies me a little more intensely.

_I shake my head as if my mind is an Etch-a-sketch_

_-and I can somehow shake unwanted images away by_

_shaking away what I don't want to see._

* * *

><p>"Are you ready to go?"<p>

"And miss my show?," Jane starts, slowly and seriously, before I notice the slightest tugging of his lips and realize I've been had.

"You're such a little brat, you know that?," I mutter as his smile grows even more luminous as I speak. "Those are ugly socks too, by the way. They clash with your t-shirt."

**_Not that I really care one whit about socks or t-shirt colors. _**

**_I just want to get back on familiar ground._**

Jane doesn't seem to take the critique too seriously, however; he merely stops his search (_he's gotten down on his hands and feet at the present time_) and gives me a pointed look, but otherwise gives no indication that he's heard me at all.

"What are you looking for, anyway? Maybe I can help?"

"And mock my shoes on top of everything else? They're _green_ by the way. Just another color to clash with all the other ugly colors, am I right?," Jane quips, his voice sounding more relaxed now - to my relief.

_So he** was** looking for his ridiculous lace-less sneakers._

**_Slip on Keds, I think._**

The alternative option was Velcro strapped shoes - which basically scream _DISABLED!_ when affixed to the frame of a fully grown man. Given that option, his selection of the slip on pair really doesn't surprise me at all. It was definitely the preferable choice, in my opinion.

"Found them!," Jane breathes out a nanosecond later, then drags the lemon-lime Keds out from under their hiding place (which happens to be a duffel bag, lent by Cho, and filled with books) and works them onto his feet.

And I'm right.

The canvas shoes not only clash with his socks.

**_They also look crumpled._**

"Silly me. Here I thought you'd be this pin-tidy person. A _place for everything, and everything in its place_," I lower myself to the only chair in the room. A mustard yellow thing made of plastic. God awful ugly, just like almost everything in Ward A. "What are you watching, by the way?"

Jane raises his head slightly, squints - almost as if uncertain as to what he_ had_ been watching before I arrived. Then recognition streams through and then says: "Oh - _The Six Million Dollar Man._ Re-runs on **_Retro-Roar_**. It's been on all day, interspersed with 'commercials' of School House Rock and Tootsie Roll ads," Jane says slowly.

**_Retro-Roar? _**

**_That's a stupid name for a TV channel, if you ask me._**

"This seems borderline familiar," I add a moment later, feeling a slight prickling discomfort when Jane stops his actions midway, one shoe still dangling from his hand. His body - rigid.

I help him finish with shoe #2, and he snaps back to attention.

"You feeling alright?," I test. I mean, pneumonia itself has got to take a lot out of a person. Never mind pneumonia on top of psychotropics. He probably feels awful.

"It's - it's the medication," Jane starts softly, his eyes now fully trained on the bed. Which is another new emotional reaction that's cropped up in the last several months. Before his time here, I doubt he would have ever been ashamed of medication.

In fact, he would have likely flaunted any active prescriptions and made up excuses to cat nap for extended periods of time, instead._ He would have milked it for all it was worth, sympathy-wise._

Now he's not only feeling an inordinate amount of shame, he's also taking on full responsibility for the emotional reactions of others.

What's worse - on top of that - Jane doesn't seem to have registered a basic sense of betrayal. He hasn't shown any upset with the team. Not with me, for even thinking it was possible that he could have harmed innocent women, never mind his own wife and child.

**_He's not even upset with Rigsby._**

And I understand that he's relieved, all things considered. That despite the sickening memories he's recently had to face, he at least has been handed back some small amount of hope.

**I get that.**

What concerns me is the lack of self-preserving emotions he's displayed. Because while he's gone through almost every emotion you'd imagine - and then some - he's failed to exhibit one primary and vital to his very recovery.

**_Anger._**

He hasn't really gotten angry yet.

Not in any observable fashion that I can see.

It unnerves me, and I hate it, but there's not a lot I can do about it, either. I can't march over there and put a hand on his shoulder and make everything better. I can't hug him and make his pain and grief disappear. And I certainly don't want to work him up, and get him angry. I am scared myself by the well of anger that must exist in his soul.

**How deep his anger must run.**

Moreover - I sense that he's scared by it, too.

* * *

><p>"I don't know if I ever watched this, but this tune sounds like something I know. From a dream, almost. Or a very old memory," I add when Jane doesn't respond to my initial comments.<p>

"You would have been maybe -_ maybe_ - two years old when it aired, Lisbon. I was much older, so it makes sense that I would remember it better."

I snort.

"Much older, my ass. You're not even three years older than me, Jane! How much older could you have possibly been?"

He nods, but doesn't concede the point. "I was at least twice your age. That's a big difference when someone is two."

I roll my eyes. "Jane. Seriously? You would have been a preschooler. I don't think _"much older"_ fits into any discussion having to do with toddlers. Ever. It's like saying _"old baby._" It's nonsensical."

He smiles at the bedsheets, not at my face - but then his smile drains away as water swirling down a drain.

"What is it?," I test gingerly.

"I remember this was playing in the background when my Dad took me home."

**_Took him home?_**

Oh, but _then I get it._

Then I get it _completely._

"This music was playing in the background," he repeats. "I was so hot and so cold - all at once. With a fever. I can remember. My dad gave me orange popsicles and I was so cold that I almost asked for something warm - but I didn't want to get him angry. I didn't want him to take me back."

_No wonder he remembers this show. _

_This is the show that he has forever linked to his-_

_rescue?  
><em>

Which really wasn't a rescue at all, if you really think about it. It was just a father picking up his kid, and ensuring his son didn't _die_ from god damn scarlet fever. Which would have been a real possibility given that Jane's _drug addicted mother_ couldn't ensure that her child wouldn't be victimized even when she _wasn't_ high.

So Jane's father wasn't really a man who'd win _Father of the Year_ any time soon, but to Jane - he must have seemed like an angel. And this show?

**_Of course he'd remember this show..._**

"It felt good to be sick. Really sick, like that. It felt - like nothing _hurt_. Like I wasn't on earth, just up in the sky. And my dad gave me this pink syrup - it tasted gross - but it made me sleepy and it made me, _I don't know_ - made me not care? I felt like I was floating - my brain was probably _frying_," and he makes a sound that could almost pass as a laugh, though the sound is devoid of humor.

Jane freezes for a moment, looking indecisive. A moment later he carries on.

"And I remember getting cold, and trying to get under the sheets because suddenly my t-shirt was gone. I remember that I started crying, and I remember my dad started shaking me a little bit, shaking me, asking me why I was bleeding. He was so angry, and I thought he was angry at _me_."

I swallow, but don't say anything, _can't_ say anything.

"I was too scared to answer, Lisbon. So I just - I burrowed my face into the pillow, and he picked me up, and I screamed. He just said over and over again that I had to get cleaned up. I was so scared though - I thought the water was going to burn me."

His eyes are large and owlish, and something about him suddenly appears dissociative.

"I think - _I think_ someone burned me, once. I think maybe someone burned me for being bad - when I was little," Jane whispers, and I sit down on the edge of his bed - about a foot away from him - and let my hand linger near the base of his skull.

"You were never bad, Jane," I say softly when he stops talking abruptly. "Do you want to tell me more? You can. It's alright."

A shuddering, breathless ripple goes through his body, but he's not done.

I don't think he'll be done for awhile. Not when these are the memories painted across his mind's eye every time he tries to go to sleep.

"What happened?," I encourage softly, almost needing to know as badly as he needs to tell.

"He didn't burn me. He put me in warm water, with bubbles. When he took me out of the water, the water was pink," and now - fear.

His voice shakes, and it rouses me to full attention.

"Jane-," and I gulp down a mass that feels as accusatory and out of place as a tumor. "You don't have to talk about this if you don't want to. Do you _want_ to talk about this?"

"I'm sorry," he repeats, and his breath tickles my neck. "I don't know why I am talking about this. Today was supposed to be good. I'm sorry."

And whatever spell was cast on him is now breaking apart, and he quiets down, frantically wiping at his eyes.

I rub his back and only slow my actions when I feel him tense up.

"It's okay," I whisper against his ear - though I don't resume my motions. I have no idea what an innocuous touch - _to me_ - might mean to him. Because maybe it started small. The abuse. Maybe it started with hugs and gentle touches on his head. Maybe it started with a man - not his daddy, someone else - complimenting him. Telling him what a_ cute little boy_ he was, _how charming_, how _good_.

Maybe his abusers even told him it was "okay."

As if reading my mind, Jane mutters, "I don't confuse you with them, Lisbon. They never hugged me. They were never nice about it. I mean-"

**I get it.**

**_I do._**

"They weren't gentle. Not ever, it-" but he doesn't finish the sentence. Just gulps down the consonants, and comes back with more staggered speech.

"So I don't get scared when you touch me. I don't get_ confused or anything_-," he trails off again, cheeks now bright red in the dim light.

The TV continues to flash and flicker on its mute setting, a red X splayed across the screen telling us to be

MUTE.

* * *

><p>Jane's hands are playing with the hem of my shirt.<p>

Playing with a loose thread.

I'm not even positive he realizes he's fiddling with the cloth that skirts and edges around my waist at all, if you want to know the truth.

"_I'm sorry_," he says less shakily now, "You didn't do anything wrong and I'm acting like you are going to-," he swallows, "I know _you_ will never hurt me. It's not you, Lisbon. It's just that everything about me is filthy. What they did. It's all _over me_-"

"Stop. Jane, _please stop_ talking like-"

His eyes flicker with something that looks a heck of a lot like guilt, then.

"You think I'm scared of you? I'm not scared of you! I just feel like I'm_ contaminating_ you, Lisbon! It was so disgusting, what they did and-," the words come out in one shuddering mass and tangle of sound.

"Listen to me, Jane," I rasp. "Nothing about you is contaminating me! Nothing about you is - or _has ever been_ disgusting!"

"I am, though, Lisbon. I **left** him there. With my mother. And those men. He was just a baby, and I just left him there to be hurt like _that_! It's worse than being killed! But really they did that too, didn't they? They killed him, didn't they?"

His breaths are now coming out in rapid streams of noise - a high pitched wheeze alerting me to the very real fact that Jane is still extremely weak; his lungs are still recovering from a nasty bought of pneumonia, exacerbated my extreme malnutrition.

"You know what he is now! You know what he became. All because of _me_-"

He cannot afford to get this worked up.

He's already anemic, and stricken with pneumonia.

"NOT because of you," and my words sound like a growl, low in my throat. "_You_ didn't leave John anywhere. You were just a little boy, and you had a high fever. So your dad took you away because he knew your mom couldn't take care of you properly. In no possible _Universe_ are you to blame for this! For any of this!"

Jane's fingers feel cool against my skin, and the fact that he is so focused on the buttons on my cardigan only highlight his profound upset. He's not even meeting my eyes any more.

"You didn't make your mom turn to drugs," I continue a few moments later once I realize that he _IS_ listening.

Listening as if his very life depends on what I do or do not say next.

"And it wasn't your fault that she became an addict. You didn't leave John with her to be hurt. You protected him as best you could for as long as you could, just like you tried to help your own mom."

I take one of his hands, and shake it in exasperation.

"Are you hearing any of this?I know you are listening, but are you hearing?"

He exhales, nods, and I can almost sense how sore his throat must be when he adds, "_I knew_ what would happen if I wasn't there, though. The only way he was safe was when I was there. I shouldn't have let my dad take me away. I should have stayed with him, Lisbon."

"Patrick," I bite out, "the men that hurt you were pedophiles. And when your brother got older, they would have hurt him, too. The responsibility lies 100% with them, or with those adults that knew what was happening to you - but let you or John be hurt. None of it lies with you, do you understand?"

I see his lip clench up behind his teeth then. I see his eyes close into something terminal - and in that moment, I'm reminded of a guillotine coming down and ending all expression. That precise, rapid ending of sight, of sound - as he tries to control his pain and shut it back down into something he can repress.

"You were a terrified little boy. Just like _any_ four year old would have been! No child would have wanted to go back to that! And it doesn't make you complicit just because you tried to stay away from it, either."

"I was so quiet though, Lisbon. For my dad. I tried so hard to be quiet so he wouldn't take me back. The clothes were so clean. I was so clean. I tried so hard to stay there, even though I knew John was all alone. Even though I knew no one would help him! I didn't even ask for my dad to get him too!"

**_He's too hurt for this to go away with a pep talk._**

**_He's possibly too hurt for this to ever - fully - go away.  
><em>**

"He wasn't even_ two_, Lisbon. He was just a baby. Just a baby. And then I forgot all about him. How could I have forgotten about my own little brother? What sort of person does that make me? To not even remember him at all?"

He makes a noise next to my throat next - a wretched sound, almost bestial. _A shrieking kitten, a pig being slaughtered_ - some hapless creature facing annihilation - and I can feel heat in his expulsion of air.

Blood-hot breaths pelt my neck. Forceful breaths.

"You were trying to survive. _You were just trying to survive_," I repeat when he reaches out for me of his own volition.

_There's no way he'll want to go out today. _

_He's too upset._

"Jane?," I murmur a couple minutes later, somewhat surprised when he tightens his grasp, "Do you want to stay here today, or do you want to go to the zoo?"

It sounds like a ridiculously stupid question, but I need to know what we're doing. I highly doubt Jane wants an orderly checking up on us, wondering what's the matter.

**_He's embarrassed enough as it is..._**

I do, however, realize my mistake as soon as I've spoken.

"I don't want you to leave," he pleads, as if that was ever an option.

I wind my free arm around his back, and let my other rest against his own. Tapping his fingers, I assert: "I never said I'd leave, buster. This is our day, and I'm not leaving until you ask me to go."

"Or until the front desk 'asks' you to return me?," he asks, still in that terribly soft voice and I can sense the fatigue behind his shallow grin.

"Or _that_," I concede. "Look - we don't have to leave. We can watch something on TV. A movie, maybe? There's got to be a movie starting soon on TV. Or we can play a game. You can teach me how to play Poker - properly, this time. Or we can go out for a bit, maybe get some hot chocolate? Go to a tea shop? Whatever you want to do. You choose."

He pulls back a few inches, and I realize for a man who has only recently been given control back over his own _limbs_ that the choices I've outlined may seem dauntingly numerous.

Finally, he tries with a slight: "I'd like to get hot chocolate with you."

It's more question than anything else, and it makes me want to wince at the sheer vulnerability. Because his voice sounds almost shy; I'm reminded of a school boy whose just asked a girl out on a date. His expression almost seems _that_ uncertain and now - with his cheeks flushed - I actually have to resist an impulse to ruffle his hair.

"Hot chocolate it is, then," I state, resolute.

The last thing I want Jane to do is to agonize over a decision that should really just be fun.

"Come on. Let's get out of here and get some hot chocolates."

Jane zips up his sweater jacket and follows me out the door.

* * *

><p>"Aww, cripes," I hiss at the traffic.<p>

It's 3:19.

It shouldn't be this jam packed.

Not on Duncan and Fletcher Street.

"Did everybody decide to skip work today just to piss me off?," I grumble - more to myself than my companion, although Jane smiles elegantly up at me from the passenger side seat.

_Of course. The man has hearing like a bat._

"Yes - just to _piss you off_," he states - looking so much better in such a short period of time that Wanda's assertion of his resilience is starting to really hit home.

"Are we going to Morris Park Center?"

I shrug.

"I thought it would make sense. They have about a gazillion little coffee shops and book stores and all sorts of selection. Why? Did you want to go somewhere else?"

"No, Morris Park Center is fine. More than fine. Really. We can go to _Fuel _and get some extra caffeine with our hot chocolate."

"_Riiight._ Nice try, mister. I'm not jacking up your hot chocolate with espresso, Jane. That's not a hot chocolate anyway. That's a mocha. And you know what Sattler said. Minimal caffeine."

Jane stops fiddling with the stereo knob and gives me a look that _almost_ could pass for one of his classic pouts.

"But there's caffeine already _in_ hot chocolate," he sing songs, before hitting the scan button once more.

"Yes, _there is_. So you're lucky to even be getting hot chocolate. I mean, your options could suddenly become limited to rosehip or chamomile tea."

I fix him with a stern look, mock though it is. "And are you sure you even care to listen to music? You've been at that for at least fifteen minutes."

Jane suddenly zips up his sweater-jacket to his neck, trembling. He's still cold though I'm not surprised. Now - away from other chronic depressives and hospitalized individuals, his thinness is becoming all the more staggering.

And I knew he'd be cold - hence, the recommendation of a hot beverage, and not an outing for pistachio ice cream or something equally chilling. But I didn't know he'd be this cold, or else I would have demanded he bring a coat.

"I want to listen to _music_. I don't want to listen to _bubblegum pop_," he mutters a few seconds later, and _I want_ to smile wholeheartedly given that he just seems so normal right now.

So natural, and unguarded.

_And I've missed this. _

_I've missed my friend._

When I realize he's watching me attentively, I clear my throat and utter: "Try 97.3 FM. It's a classical music station. At this time of the day, it's mostly romantic era stuff. _Magical_. Christmas-y."

"Oh, you've already sold me, don't worry Lisbon," Jane smiles right back, then hits 'scan' and waits until the radio flips around to the correct station. We listen for a moment as 97.3 tunes in and a cheery selection from _The Nutcracker_ starts up a moment later.

"_Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy_? I love this piece! Although it's a rather jubilant number to have been composed by such a chronic depressive, don't you think? Makes you almost wonder how melancholics can write such uplifting scores."

Jane takes a breath then, low and heavy - as if short on oxygen. His voice also still sounds cut up and raw, and I motion for him to search the glove compartment. "There's some throat drops in there. Cherry, I think."

His eyes shift from my face to where I am currently pointing, and he slowly unlocks the compartment a moment later, searches around for the proffered lozenges. I am rewarded when Jane extracts a plastic tub of Sucrets and takes one out of the foil enclosure.

"Sucrets are definitely my _favorite_ from the cough drop family, but I wish they still came in a metal tin. It's less special now. They've lost that special aura that made me want to eat them."

"Oh _woe is us_, Jane," I chuckle, amused - though equally pleased that he's relaxed enough to yammer on about a subject as inane as cough drops. Weirdly enough, it makes me feel like everything is going to be okay.

That everything will be fine, in the end. Even if my friend is currently reading the back of a Sucrets container. Reading the ingredients list of said cough drops as if the secrets of the universe were etched on the box in type 1 font.

"Is your throat sore or not?"

"Little bit," he agrees, popping a Sucrets out of its packaging and into his mouth. "You don't mind if this is on?," he asks a second later, indicating to the heat button.

"Of course not. It is getting chilly lately, anyway. You're just feeling it so intensely because you're a string bean now."

I hear the sound of crunching pause as Jane devours the lozenge, then mutters, "Says Miss _Pint-Sized_."

I then pull up into the lot for _Kindelmaar's Books_.

* * *

><p>"This isn't <em>Fuel<em>," Jane points out. "Don't you want coffee?"

"Well, they have a bistro here that makes really good hot chocolates and other drinks. Plus, this way we can snap up some more Sudoku books for you," I explain needlessly.

I really don't need to sell him on the venture: Jane is looking up at the red and blue wood sign with interest and in the next breath he gets out of the vehicle, and slams his door shut with a reverberating ping.

"_Jane!_," I call out - prompting him to turn back around to me and freeze; a look of chastised awareness splashing across his features when I add, "Just - oh, _you know_. Stay close."

_And then I see shame._

Unconstrained shame.

Even though he swallows down his discomfort with a smile and pipes back with a somewhat stung: "I _know_, Lisbon. Stay where you can see me and don't act like a crazy person. I get it."

"_Jane-_"

"_I get it_," he states again, although this time he's whispering.

_Mostly to himself._

We still walk into _Kindelmaar's_ together.

* * *

><p>I feel moronic, glancing over my shoulder every five seconds to look at my friend - who is currently slumped down in an unmoving hump, scanning through book after book on the Roman Empire.<p>

I don't feel moronic for keeping an eye on Jane, mind you.

I feel _moronic_ for debating with myself over whether or not I should grab a ridiculously sweet brown bear plush that is googling at me from the shelves.

**_Grab it, and buy it for Jane._**

It would be nothing but an impulsive purchase, to be sure. But it also screams **_Patrick Jane!_** - what with its little mock wool jacket and toggle buttons, checkered scarf and galoshes.

It's the quintessential Rupert bear plush, complete with even a satchel bag. Straight from England.

_It's the type of stuffed animal Jane would probably love._

**_If he were five, Teresa. _**

**_If he were five...  
><em>**

Regardless, I highly doubt he ever _had_ a teddy bear when he was a little kid, anyway. So it's not a matter of IF would he like it. It's more the question of _will I embarrass him if I purchase this?_

_Will this make him more uncomfortable if I do?_

Something's telling me to just buy it. Just buy it, along which a whole whack of Sudoku books, and maybe just stuff a gift card into the satchel bag, too. Say that it comes that way, now.

That the gift cards _come with stuffed animals now._ I mean, other retailers are doing it.

**_Because something tells me he could possibly -need- something like this._**

**_Which sounds ridiculous, I know._**

But I can't shake the sense that he would like it.

Something soft, and safe, and full of childlike spirit.

Something he never got the first time around.

* * *

><p>"Do you know what you want?," I ask Jane freely as he squints up at the overhanging board of beverages.<p>

He looks indecisive.

"What do _you_ want?," he asks softly; I can sense that his shyness is back ten-fold. I mean, there is something undeniably_ cute_ about Jane right now. Something almost endearing about his tentativeness. But that's only until I remember that the source of this new found behavior is uncontainable anxiety.

"I think I'm going to get a triple mocha espresso," I state firmly when I hear him shuffle up to read the board with greater clarity, "Maybe even a quadruple mocha espresso."

He blinks over at me quickly, laughs, and the sound is balm to my nerves.

It's a perfect sound.

"You are such a tease," he chuckles. "Have you ever tried the _'Mint London Fog'_?," he queries, eyes still squinting to such a degree that I almost wonder if the man needs glasses.

"Or should I not even tempt it? I mean mint and bergamot? Is that too much?"

"I don't think it's too much," I offer, semi-helpfully at best.

_I definitely don't think it's too much-_

_-considering I'm carrying around a children's teddy bear for you. _

Because -_God_- if mint with bergamot is too much then what is Jane going to think of me when I give him a toddler's toy as a present?

The barista comes forward then - breaking me from my musings - and politely asks us for our order.

"I think we'll take one London Fog and one Mint London fog?," I supply, and Jane's eyes suddenly burn with a tender awareness. "Lisbon, you don't even_ like-," _he whispers, looking alarmed._  
><em>

"Also a walnut fudge brownie for me, and a blueberry muffin, right Jane? Or did you want something else?"

Jane shakes his head - watching hungrily as the woman pulls out the largest blueberry muffin she can find from the display case.

"Would you like it heated, sir? With butter?"

Jane is now eying the muffin as if he's a mouse being offered cheddar cheese.

"Yes, please. To both, thank you."

The woman nods, and gives us a little Christmas Stocking marked with the number 11 for our table.

"I can bring everything out to you in a couple minutes if you'd like?," she queries, while I nod and Jane selects the task of finding the booth furthest away from the windows.

_**He gets so many headaches now.**_

I sit down opposite him, and check my watch. 4:11 PM

He doesn't need to be back at the clinic until 6.

_We have a solid hour, minimally._

I wait until our barista comes around with our beverages and snacks before I hesitate with my gift. Pushing the beverages towards Jane, I indicate that he should try both.

"Take whichever one you like best," I state when he looks slightly confused. "I'm not partial."

"I can't drink from both - you'll get sick."

"Oh, right."

**_Pneumonia._**

**_Brilliant, Teresa. _**

"Okay, well - how about this?," I take a serving tablespoon and dip it into the first beverage, pulling up a little Mint London Fog up as if it's soup. Jane takes the bait then smacks his lips together quietly, lost in thought.

"So? Any good?," I inquire.

"Too minty sweet. Like _creme de menthe_. I don't know if I could drink the whole thing."

I roll my eyes.

"Shocker, _that_. It tastes like _"mint."_ Oh how could we have ever known, I wonder? If only there had been some sort of CLUE!"

"You're a sarcastic little thing when you don't get your caffeine, aren't you?," Jane says around a mouthful of muffin while I nudge the classic London Fog over his way. He takes it gratefully - but not without the slightest bit of uncertainty.

"Don't worry about it, Jane. I_ like_ mint. I like almost any drink that's sweet, really. And this is sweet, you said?"

He smiles.

"_Ohhh_ yeah. It's most definitely _sweet_. I can already feel the cavities forming in my teeth as we speak."

I put down my brownie, somewhat put-off. "Lovely image, there. Thank you for that."

He nods, grins, then pulls apart his muffin a little more and dunks it in his London Fog while I take another bite of my chocolate confection. A couple bites more, and a comfortable silence envelopes us both; I seize the moment and quickly drop the little Rupert doll in the middle of the table.

_Before I lose my nerve..._

I wait until Jane fully registers the stuffed animal that's sitting four inches from his plate and try not to smirk when he almost chokes on his muffin.

"What's that?," he points uncertainly, as if he's hallucinating. But then, suddenly - he's smiling.

_Thank God he's smiling..._

Also - _what's more_ - he's not smiling like someone who thinks the thing is _stupid_.

He's smiling like he finds it charming, perhaps. Maybe.

Possibly.

**_Hopefully.  
><em>**

"That's Rupert Bear," I state quickly - my voice more ramble than anything else.

"My mom used to read me all the stories when I was little. There's a gift card in his satchel for you too - so you can get some books to take back with you before we leave."

Jane takes the doll almost reverently, his fingers tapping along the wood toggle buttons of Rupert Bear's coat.

Carefully.

_Almost entranced._

"It was an impulse buy, so don't go teasing me about it, alright? I saw him and I thought of you. Must be the outdated - _through spiffy_ - outfit. Circa 1890 or something, am I correct?"

Jane's eyes are still bright, though his smile (previously amused) is now fading away completely.

_Uh oh._

"I thought if it just makes you laugh, well. Mission accomplished. Feel free to laugh anytime, there."

Although Jane doesn't really look like he's even _close_ to laughing anymore.

He looks like he's close to crying. And that's certainly not the emotion I was expecting; though if I had stopped to THINK at all, I should have entertained it as a very real possibility.

Simply because he probably never had anything like this as a child. Not one tiny scrap of plush or fiber ever meant to be comforting. One could even argue that he didn't_ have_ a childhood, and that something so whimsical - after everything he's gone through in the last couple weeks - would have like-lied prompted more pain.

"Jane - it's just a bear," I mutter, my voice low and timber gentle so as to not raise attention from the other patrons. "It's just a silly bear doll. Please don't be upset."

"I'm not upset," he breathes out, before he then wipes his eyes before drawing the doll closer to him.

"Thank you, Lisbon. _He's_-"

But he doesn't finish speaking, and I know he isn't planning to, either. That he won't. Or possibly _can't_.

"You're welcome," I say - so slightly that I almost wonder if he would have heard me at all.

Although maybe now is the time for some silence, anyway. Especially as Jane continues to stare up at the plush as if it's a living, breathing thing. A real being._ A human child._

"I've always loved this little guy - as long as I've known him. He is one of my very favorites - one of my absolute favorites in the whole world," and I squeeze Jane's hand strongly this time.

_Because we both know that I'm not talking about stuffed animals anymore._

He swallows, then nods.

.

.

.

**And then he squeezes back.**


End file.
